


Perpetual Darkness

by RumbleFish14



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anger, Dark, Drug Addiction, Endgame, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, Fraternities & Sororities, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loss of time, M/M, Moody Ian Gallagher, Mutual Pining, Painter Ian, Photographer Mickey, Self-Medication, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Teasing, Twisted, art students
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-12-26 14:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18283946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RumbleFish14/pseuds/RumbleFish14
Summary: College life for Ian has been a success, up until the loss of his brother and his entire world changes. The darkness creeps into Ian more and more each day, only visualized in the form of his paintings and his resistance to let anyone close to him...In walks Mickey Milkovich, new transfer to Ian's college, with a no nonsense attitude and the bluest eyes Ian had ever seen. He sees the same darkness in Mickey, as he sees in himself. The closer he gets to Mickey, the more the darkness fades...but it's only temporary. Nothing can bring back the loss of his brother, not even Mickey





	1. Vines

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!! Something new I'm working on. I really have no idea where it came from or where it's going but this first chapter just flowed so I'm going to go with it! Hope you all enjoy!

Perpetual Darkness  
Chapter1-Vines

 

The constant thumping of the baseball against the wall helped him focus. His mind was full of chaos recently, a swirling vortex of darkness, with walls so high not even the slightest glint of the sun could shine through. It felt like cobwebs, mucking up his every thought, pulling him tight as he tried to escape the tangled web. Smothering him. 

Ian wasn’t always like this; dark and moody, inconsolable. Ian one year ago was your everyday junior at School of the Art Institute in Chicago. Artists were supposed to be moody, deep and dark pits of despair, that’s what art was. That’s what created art. The art revealed the pain inside you, pain you can’t describe with something as simple as words. Too overrated. Too easy to misconstrue your point or meaning. Art, painting in particular for him, opened his entire world up. Gave him an outlet for his rage, his sorrow. 

Then his life took a twist. His brother died. His big brother. The one person he was closest to, his best friend. His shoulder to cry on or his punching bag when they needed to let out their anger. Car accident. A single moment, a car that never bothered to stop at the red light, took him away. Gone in the blink of an eye. 

For six months it set him on a warpath. Drugs and booze, drowning in an endless pool of sex, trying to peel away the layers that hurt. Trying to forget. Skipping school and waking up in places he didn’t know, with faces he didn’t care enough to remember. Abusing his body with whatever or whoever he could find. Nothing helped. Nothing took the pain away. 

Until he walked into a tattoo shop, thinking it was a dive bar down town. Once inside, he couldn’t leave. Staring at the art all over the walls. Seeing it transform from mind to paper, from paper to ink. He watched thoughts come to life in the form of tattoos, fresh skin mixed with ink, some black, others filled with color, then adding blood into the mix.

The sound of buzzing gun, watching perfect lines appear was tantalizing, addicting. Swipe, buzz, swipe, buzz. Over and over until that person was a walking work of art. It was memorizing. He knew in that moment, from hours of watching art come to life, that he had to have them. He needed the blank canvas that was his body to be full of it, a giant masterpiece from the dark, depraved depths of his mind. Maybe if they ended up on his skin instead of in his mind, he might find Ian Gallagher from 1 year ago. He had to be there somewhere.

Ian caught the ball one last time before he rolled up the sleeves of his red and black plaid hoodie and studied the ink on his arms. All black and gray. The whiteness of his skin making them stand out. 

He ran his fingers over the dark and twisted vines up his right forearm, tangled with roses, some dead and wilting, others in full bloom, thorns, digging into his skin, drips of blood trickling down his wrist. 

The vines started from his right shoulder and flowed down, curling around his arm like a snake, circling around his wrist, twisting around his thumb, then in between his knuckles, spelling out LOVE in the same prickly design. 

The more Ian traced the vines, the more he wanted another one. Maybe he needed another web to go with the one he ready had on the back of his neck, since his mind was currently trapped in one. Maybe wrapped around his leg, incasing him like a mummy, wrapping around him, making it so he couldn’t escape, so he couldn’t run. Because he couldn’t. 

The music blasting downstairs interrupted his chain of thought. Yanking him from the ideas forming in his mind, to listen to whatever rap song was currently steaming. He tossed the ball hard, pegging the upper left corner of the door and smiled as it chipped the paint and fell like a canon to the ground, rolling out of sight. 

“Fuckin bull shit,” he hissed and heaved himself up off his messy bed. Crinkling his sketch pad, making a few dozen pencils roll off and clatter to the ground.

He yanked the door open and grabbed the nearest person that passed, which happened to be his fellow fraternity brother. Yes, he was in an honest to God fraternity. Complete with togas, beer pong, roofies and parties every goddamned night. 

“The fuck Jase, what happened to no fuckin party tonight?” Ian hissed in his face, eyebrows angry as he demanded his answer.

“Sorry Ian, Ace said we were having one tonight. Sent out emails, texts, fliers over the half the school.”

Ace; leader of their little Chapter. Prefers to use that title as a name instead of the one his parents named him. Lindsay. Total chick name if you asked him and Ian would continue to call him that until he took his head out of his ass and kept his damn word. Fat fucking chance.

“I got a damn art show tomorrow asshole and don’t need people up in my shit,” he pushed Jase off and glared as the double doors of their mansion-like house opened and people started pouring in by the boat loads. “How the fuck am I supposed to get anything done?”

Jase looked sorry, a little frightened maybe but ultimately, he was useless. This shit wasn’t up to him. Pledges rarely had a say. Mostly just lackies, doing their Chapters dirty work to earn a place with them. Ian dismissed him with a flick of his wrist and stormed back into his room.

He chased after rolling pencils, stuffed his sketch pad into his bag, along with his weed, iPod, tucked his covered canvas under his arm and patted the pockets of his torn, ratty jeans looking for the keys to the art studio and bolted back out.

“Cunts.” He muttered as he shoved past grinding bodies, wandering hands and took the stairs two at a time until he reached the lower level. “God, just fuckin move!” He barked at a girl, no taller than his ribs and watched her scramble out of his way.

“Gallagher!!”

Ian ignored his name and kept shoving assholes out of his path. One clipped his canvas and nearly sent it spinning on to the floor, ready to he stomped to shit. He grabbed said asshole and slammed him up against the door by the front of his golf-lookin ass shirt. 

“One mark on this and I will beat your ass with it.” Ian growled and watched the guy sputter for a response worthy enough to call him off.

“Jesus Gallagher, calm the fuck down!” 

Ian was being pulled off by none other than ‘Ace’ aka Lindsay, “the man in charge.” Quotations on that like a motherfucker. That prick wasn’t in charge of shit. Ian shoved him off and let his captive go, scuttling out of his sight.

“Back the fuck off me.” Ian jerked away as Lindsay tried to reach out and do what, comfort him? Talk him down? 

“You can’t go about beating everyone’s ass Ian, last time that fucker called the cops.”

Ian glanced back at the douche who clipped him, and he seemed familiar enough. Skinny jeans that cut circulation to his nuts off, stupid polo-wearin asshat that would call the cops. 

“Then get some fuckin control.” He shoved past the rest of them in his way as Lindsay followed him out. “Or, you can keep your damn word and learn how to plan a party.”

“We needed to do it tonight Ian. We need to—”

He shook his head. “I don’t have time to listen to that excuse Lindsay, I have to drag my shit to the studio to get it done because of your bullshit party.”

“Keep it up Gallagher and I’ll be forced to bench your ass and put you on probation.”

Ian smiled and calmly set his stuff on the bench to his knees and saw Lindsay take a step back. “Wanna try that shit again?” His eyebrows lifted, making the barbells through it pull tight. “Does the word Legacy mean anything to you, or did you suddenly forget your Greek History?”

Lindsay opened his mouth a few times, trying and failing to find something real to threaten him with. He hated the smug look on Ian’s face and scowled at him. “Being a Legacy doesn’t make you untouchable.

“Actually, it does. Look it up.” He grabbed his shit and flipped Lindsay the finger as he walked through the freshly planted grass, sneering at the ‘stay off the grass' sign and walked in the direction of the studio.

*

Ian swiped both hands down the floor to ceiling canvas in front of him, getting dark black paint smeared up his arms, ruining his jeans. Music blasted hatefully in his ears, doing its best to drown out the voices spewing hate and lies throughout his mind.

'You're not good enough’

‘Everyone hates you'

'Everything you touch turns to ash'

Hateful. Dark. Disgusting things bounced around his skull. Pingponging off the cobwebs like a wrestler in a ring and back to slap against the front of his mind. Telling him how hopeless it was. Life. Death. Love. That nothing was worth it anymore. That no one cared about him. That he was alone, sinking into the depths of his own hell, created by the passion that burned within. Eating its way out of his body and creating….this.

A well. Dark, dank and musty. Smeared with black and green and sorrow. A crumbling well. The so called masterpiece he’d been working the last three hours on. Surrounded by dead, rotting trees, brown grass and the only signs of life were the vile creatures that lurked around it. 

Crows and ravens, black feathers that fell to the ground. Broken and jagged. Bugs crawled from the ground, leaving the slimy feel of dread in their wake. The cover of the well lay at the ground, cracked in the center, chipped on the curves. Leaving the well open, letting rain water pour inside, adding to the dank, filthy water trapped at the bottom of a 16 foot deep hole. Trapped. Unable to escape.

Just like he was. 

Ian jerked his hands off the canvas, splattering paint across the floor and barely missing his discarded shirt. He turned away from the horrific picture, breathing heavily, panting. Sweat covered his back and his chest, making his tattoos gleam in the low lighting of the room. 

“Fuck!!” he screamed at the top of his lungs until the need for fresh air made him stop. The sound bounced off the walls, feeling so powerful to rattle the framed art littered throughout the room. 

Painting was supposed to make him feel better. It was supposed to lift his dark, horrifying mood and bring him peace. It was supposed to be making him heal, to weed through the negative shit in his mind to find the good. It wasn’t working anymore. He still felt all that bad shit inside. Like there was no hope. No happiness and he was so fucking tired of feeling like this.

The only thing he managed to accomplish tonight, was smoking his weed, painting a dark fucking picture, literally and ruining a new pair of jeans. Great. Just the breakthrough he wanted. Compared to other nights, he was taking it easy. He hadn’t bled yet and he wasn’t drunk, but the night was still young.

Ian walked to the sink on autopilot, washing paint off his hands while he glared at the moon just outside the window. A little too bright, a little too round. Too fucking perfect. He stared so hard he didn’t notice his skin on fire from the hot water. He didn’t notice the movement in the hallway behind him.

“Fuck you too.” He spat at the window and turned the water off. He didn’t even feel the blisters on his fingertips from the water. Ian quickly signed his name in a scribble at the bottom of the canvas before he grabbed his bag, stuffing his shirt and hoodie inside. 

There was a bright flash as he walked towards the door. Strong enough to render his eyes temporarily useless for the moment. He blinked, seeing the light spots clearing just in time for another fucking flash. 

“Son of a bitch!” He pinched between his eyes and made his way to navigate the cluttered studio to get to the door. Another flash. Ian slammed his elbow on the fire extinguisher to the left of the door and howled as pain splintered up his body. “Shit, cock, fuck!” he cursed whatever came first to his mind.

Another flash. 

Ian pushed open the door, holding into his shit tight as he looked around, past the spots and fuzz to see the door down from his open, just as another flash illuminated the hallway. The signature whine of a camera followed. 

Goddamn photography students. Ian had a strong dislike for them and their so called masterpieces. Images of shit that already existed instead of creating new ones. Like some mother nature copyrighting shit. Annoying flashes and whining sounds, making it harder for real artists like him to create anything original. 

Just as Ian reached the door, the flashes stopped and he took a moment to lean against the wall, jumping when his overheated skin touched the cold surface. At least his vision was coming back slowly. He could hear the sounds of clattering, followed by a click of a door being closed.

Ian set his shit down as he entered the room, surprised to see nothing but his work scattered about. Either in heavy duty frames, hanging on the walls, some lined the ground, resting freely on the floor. A few of his full scale canvass were there to, showing just how deep and dark his soul was. Scrolls and napkins he doodled on, random pieces of paper lined up on the table. Even some of his older, lighter stuff was there. Making his new shit seem Marilyn Manson/ Rob Zombie dark. 

“What the fuck…” he stood in the center and wondered how all his shit ended up here and why. A sound to his left drew his attention and beyond that was a door labeled: Dark Room. He moved carefully, as to make sure no damage came to his art and listened. 

Tiny little splashes sounded inside. Small clicks. A few random words like ‘perfect’ and ‘amazing' were whispered loud enough to hear it. Whoever the fuck was in there, was taking pictures of his work. But why? Who in their right mind would want to see a second hand copy of original work? That was like downloading a picture of the Mona Lisa and claiming you saw it in person.

Fucking ridiculous.

Ian gripped the knob with paint stained hands and jerked it open fast, using his other hand to grab whoever it was inside and jerk them out of the dark room. 

“Hey!”

He ignored the pissed off voice and slammed the door before releasing his hold on whoever the fuck this was. Ian nearly snorted. The guy looked so fucking ridiculous. Standing at least a head shorter than him, hair the color of tar, as slick as tar, wearing one of those geeky white lab coats that looked two sizes too big, a pair of goggles…no shit, actual goggles, like he was about to go skydiving, hiding behind the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

“Don’t ‘hey' me asshole. What’s with the damn flashing?” Ian stepped up, using his height and the bulk of his shoulders to his advantage. 

“It’s called a camera and who’s the asshole here? You just ruined my shit.”

Shorty did have a nice voice. Deep and angry, full of raw emotion. Snappy too. “Your shit? Don’t you mean my shit?” He spread his arms around the room. “You’re fuckin standing in the middle of my shit.”

“Yeah, so? That gives you the right to touch me and ruin my pictures? It’s called a dark room for a fuckin reason.”

Maybe this is what he needed; a good old fashioned pissing match over territory, over simple, material possessions. Maybe if he pushed this guy far enough, it’ll lead to fists and he can finally spill some blood before the night ended. 

“Fuck you and your dark room. Maybe try capturing something original for once. Instead of some copy of shit you call art work.”

This guy removed those goggles and dark eyebrows literally hovered over his eyes. It was the most emotion he’d gotten from anyone in a long time. Ian had the sudden urge to paint those damn eyebrows all over his canvas in the next room.

“You said this was yours, right?”

Ian was momentarily caught off guard by the change in his tone. Eyebrows went from pissing vinegar to a softer, controlled tone that almost sounded sincere. Too bad he was shitty at reading people and came off as an asshole all the time.

“No, maybe the fuckin janitor did it.” Ian rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s mine You think I give a shit about you snapping pictures of someone else’s shit?”

“You just said…” he trailed off and rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Just fuck off? I have a deadline.”

Ian stood with his mouth hanging open as this little asshole just told him to get bent. More like asked him to fuck off. It was fantastic. Energy swirled inside his body, flushing out a few of those dark corners until a laugh bubbled out of his throat. Ian couldn’t stop. Even with it being misplaced, wrong time, wrong place to laugh but fuck, it hurt and felt so good at the same time.

All the while, this guy stared at him in annoyance. Ian flipped him off as he leaned against the door to this guy’s dark room and tried to stop his hysterical laughing. It subsided enough to take a deep breath and a wave of exhaustion flowed over him.

“Goddamn, I haven’t laughed that hard in like 4 years.” Ian closed his eyes as his head started to pound.

“Well, good for you chuckles. Now, mind getting the fuck outta my way?”

Ian nodded and stood up but didn’t move from the doorway. “You’re an asshole.” Ian huffed, feeling completely at home with that assessment. The guy didn’t even look offended either. He didn’t look like anything. Not really angry or scared like he should be but just…empty. Like he was. It was fascinating.

“Yeah, thanks dick breath, I already fuckin knew that.”

Ian met his eyes and tried to figure out what made him tick. To find out what it was like inside his mind. If he was as empty and unfeeling as he seemed to be on the outside. To figure out who he was, what dark, depraved thoughts were hidden behind those blue eyes. 

“Night, asshole.” Ian grumbled without any heat. He moved passed him and bumped his shoulder hard. “How about you do everyone a favor and stop copywriting shit.”

Blue eyes widened.

Ian grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “No one wants to see pictures of shit that ready exist.” He didn’t wait to hear a response, just walked out the door. He felt nothing on the walk back to the frat house. He didn’t feel anger or pain, sorrow. The cobwebs of his mind has been cut, temporarily letting some fresh air in. Sweeping away the thoughts of loneliness and despair. It was silent inside for once in over a year. When he didn’t feel the restricting grasp on his lungs.

The party was still in full swing as he walked up to the house. The sight would make a good picture. Bodies spread out, some passed the fuck out, some grinding against someone else. Others looked death. A blueish color from too much alcohol and they didn’t move when he stepped over them. Cups and bottles and people running around naked and openly smoking weed…or was that crack? Ian didn’t hate any of it right now.

He was numb. 

He weaved in and out of the crowd like water. Unable to conform to a certain shape for more than a microsecond before it moved on. Ian worked his way up the stairs, one step at a time or maybe he was carried up by the crowd until he was standing at his door.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Where was all the sadness and shit? Without all that shit clogging up his mind, new shit flowed in. Instead of black and gray, it was blues and reds, swirls of yellow and greens for days. Ian dropped his bag and fell face first onto his bed.

The darkness was being held back by a flimsy wall of color. He could see it like a sheet of smoke, or steam. Darkness on one side, black and gray mixing with spiders and crows, singed feathers. Light on the other side. Everything was in color, bright and alive and there was hope. And there he stood, on the line. One foot in darkness, the other in light. Each had a hand around his ankle, pulling him. Coaxing him to one side or the other and they never let up. 

Leaving him stuck again. 

One small encounter with some asshole who called photography art, left him on the damn fence. Making him dim those dark feelings and bring forth some he hadn’t felt since Lip died. Thoughts that weren’t riddled with decay and hopelessness. Bringing forth the Ian Gallagher that used to be happy, that used to have his brother alive again. The one that cared so much about everyone. The one he had been searching for deep within himself.

The only problem was, that Ian that he used to be, the better half, only came forward because some stranger told him to fuck off. Ian had a feeling he would have to engage this guy a lot more if he hoped to dig his way out of darkness and into the sun.

**

Ian swatted at the stream of sunlight aimed right at his face. It didn’t help. His bed was as far away from the window as it could get without it being in the hallway. He knew even before his eyes opened that all that shit he managed to feel last night was long gone. He stepped over that line and back into darkness and leaving blue eyes on the light side.

It was probably for the best. You didn’t just give up a way of life, a way forced on you after tragedy. One you had zero control of. One that had become comfortable in that darkness of his own mind. 

Ian peeled open his eyes and found the room upside down. The curtains hung to the ceiling but that little slice of light streamed right into his eyes. It felt like someone was pouring molten lava into his brain and watching it boil. His head hung off the foot of the bed, nearly touching the floor.

“Fuck!” he groaned and sat up, only to grip his head with both hands as proper circulation flowed back into his neck and shoulders leaving him a bit dizzy and disoriented. Once his head stopped spinning, he looked down and found himself covered in sketch paper. Pages torn from the book laying on the floor, empty of any clean pages.

His mind was blank of any idea as to how that happened. He remembered falling asleep, then waking up. No dark dreams or tormenting figures plaguing his every dream. Ian grabbed the nearest page and found that newly familiar set of blue eyes. Drawn over and over again, every page, both sides. 

Page after pages of endless blue eyes. A mix between a stormy sky and an angry ocean. Even thought it was on paper, the eyes seemed just as irritated as they had been last night. That no nonsense attitude. The lack of any good emotions. Just like he was. 

Ian huffed, annoyed at the eyes loudly judging him and pushed them off his body and against the wall. He didn’t have time to study those eyes like he wanted to. He wasn’t slinging shit last night about his art show. He tugged on the closest shirt that didn’t stink of weed, grabbed his plaid hoodie and his bag and darted out the door.

The house looked like it had before the party. Immaculate. Like there hadn’t even been a party. But there was no way to hide all evidence of it. His brothers slumped around, hung over and he huffed at each of them when a glare was shot his way. He didn’t make them drink. He didn’t make them throw a damn party. It wasn’t his fault they couldn’t hold their liquor. 

There was no need to bump shoulders with people this time as he made it to the door. People moved out of his way, shuffling their green tinted faces to make sure he didn’t jostle them too much. They were all one look away from puking all over the clean house. Even outside looked like a brand new place. No bodies, dead or alive, no swampy smell of old beer and dank weed. It was clear path from the house to the art studio.

Ian didn’t have the time, but judging by the students milling around, shuffling like little sheep drinking their expensive ass coffee and talking about last night’s 'dope ass' party, he was late. Late or not, they couldn’t show his work without him. Or they could but only be could make them see the beauty of his dark side. 

There was a lot of shit people could say about him. That he was an emotionless asshole, that he hated everyone. Even that he was one wrong look away from becoming that guy who brought a gun to school, they could sneer at his body. His ratty jeans and paint coated shirts, the hoodie he wore too much or the twisted tattoos all over his body, the piercings too. They could say whatever the fuck they wanted, but there was no denying that his work was good. He funneled all that emotion, all the hate and sadness, the loss of his brother and the tidal wave of shit that followed, into each piece of art he created.

Even the couple hundred pages of blue eyes littered around his room. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. He knew his were probably red, bloodshot, too much weed and not enough sleep, those windows in his eyes only lead to a dark place. But those blue eyes? A blue so clear, so beautiful, a color to bring color to his side, those windows had to lead to something good. Something brightly and shiny and addicting. 

The hallway was crowded, trickling out of the door where he left his latest piece. Ian shoved passed everyone, giving dirty looks to match the ones shot in his direction. Ian finally made it into the room, and it was just as crowded, and he pushed his way to the front, where his professor stood, doing his best to explain the long wait. 

Ian glared at him like he glared at everyone else but at least he was used to it. His canvas hung in the center of the room, just behind him but that wasn’t the only one. Now that he wasn’t mentally cursing the crowd and life itself, he noticed all those pictures in the other room from last night were in here as well. Hung up on every inch of the wall. 

“The hell is this?” Ian asked, not caring if he had a crowd big enough to fit an entire gymnasium. 

“Ian, we talked about this, remember? You got requests to show your latest work?”

He nodded because that much was true. The darker shit he painted, the more people wanted to see them. This had been his last attempt to show them all before spring break when he would have all his time dipped into his twisted mind to make more.

“I didn’t expect all my shit to be hung up like this.” He motioned around the room at the pictures cluttered. There were so many of them and if it wasn’t his own work, he wouldn't have believed all these had been completed within the month. Something of this magnitude took months, years to create. Endless hours cut off from the outside world. Locked away until it was finished. And he’d done it all in under 30 days.

“We had a last minute change that was unavoidable. Sasha had a family emergency, so we had to have someone else come in here and set up.”

Sasha, his damn life saver. An Alumni of his fraternity attended 5 years ago and was now some big shot in certain circles. Sasha, the only guy he could stand in this entire school and only because he shared that darkness. His art was similar to his, easy to misinterpret by assholes too narrow minded to understand. 

It had taken him two years to full trust someone with his art the way he trusted Sasha. He helped him with the public shit he was so bad at. Organizing shows and viewings, sending samples of his work to all his Russian contacts and assured him they weren’t as mean as he assumed, they were. They formed somewhat of a friendly bond and how he wasn’t here?

“He never said shit to me about it.” Ian hissed, trying hard not to show the audience how pissed off he was. “If he did, I’d have canceled this entire thing.”

“And that’s precisely why he didn’t tell you Ian.” He whispered back. “Just give this guy a shot, yeah? You don’t have much of an option now but if you don’t like him, we don’t have to use him again.”

No choice? Of course he did. If he wanted, Ian could take down every piece of art on the walls and hall them back to where they came from. He would tell the entire crowd, even those trickling down the hallway to fuck the fuck off and that would be the end of it. However, this had been one of the biggest turns outs he’d ever had at the school. Most people who came to see his work were older, outside sources. 

Ian rubbed his eyes. “Fine. This asshole gets one shot here. If he fucks it up…” Ian trailed off when the professor nodded. He already knew. Good. It saved him the damn trouble. “Where is this guy?”

The crowd looked at him expectantly. He ignored them to scan the crowd, trying to see if Sasha's temporary replacement was hidden amongst them. Ian could see a few people that looked the part but didn’t have that air about them. They were lookie-loos, here for the show.

“Ah, here he is. Ian Gallagher…”

Ian turned away from the crowd to see none other than blue eyes from last night, standing awkwardly to the side, downright pissy. Arms crossed over his chest like he didn’t really want to be there in the first place. Well, that made two of them.

They were oil and water and that shit didn’t mix.

“This is Mickey Milkovich, he is Sasha's replacement.”

They both spoke at the same time with equal malice in their voices. “Temporary.”

“Yes, temporary.” He sighed, annoyed. “Now, can we please continue?”

Ian scuffed. In full disbelief that this asshole, a photographer no doubt, would be able to portray his art as it was meant to. The fuck did he know about it? “Fine. Give it your best shot. But don’t fuck up my shit.”

Blue eyes glared at him. He could feel the hate peeling off him. All directed at him. Ian met his icy stare with one of his own and waited for the reply.

“If anyone ruins this shit, it’ll be you. Just sit the fuck down and let me get to work.”


	2. Blood

Perpetual Darkness  
Chapter 2-Blood

Ian leaned against the bathroom stall, pants down to his boots, staring at all the obscene and truthful words written in black sharpie. How easy it would to be add to the collection, to let the thoughts about certain people leak all over that wall, for anyone to see. It didn’t matter if it was true, it only mattered what other people thought, what they said. 

“How does it feel?”

Ian looked down into a blurry face, mouth slick, lips puffy and pink. His voice was raw, sucking dick for half an hour will do that to a guy. He didn’t catch a name, couldn’t even make out his face and it was right in front of him. The only thing that mattered was he was a decent looking guy with a wet mouth that happened to be available. 

“Shut up, keep goin.” Ian huffed and pushed the guys head back down, barely noticing a change from when he stopped. Either this guy sucked, no pun intended, or his mind was so fogged, so clouded, that not even a blow job could pull him out it. 

It was impossible to sit through the entire show. There was only so much attention he was comfortable with and just walking into that room exceeded that limit tenfold. He had been spacing out until a pair of chocolate brown eyes caught his attention, eye fucking him like they were alone. 

And now that brown eyes' mouth was wrapped around his dick, he wished he was back at the show. Just his fucking luck. Unhappy with both his choices and his dick was still hard, unsatisfied. 

Ian looked down, trying to make out the features of his face, to find something extraordinary about him. But there was nothing. “Suck it harder.” He barked and the guys pace picked up, actually pulling a groan from him. “Faster.”

What he couldn’t stand the most, was blue eyes; Mickey Milkovich. Fucking asshole. Didn’t say two fuckin words the entire hour he sat there with his thumb up his ass. Listening to him misinterpret every single piece of his work. Every painting. The fucker didn’t know shit about art and had the nerve to try and “organize” his show? To pull in prospective buyer’s? Or to get his shit into an actual gallery…he would need more from Mickey if that was going to happen. 

“God!” Ian closed his eyes as his dick slid all the way down this guy’s throat. Now it was getting interesting, especially hearing him gag, feeling it. 

Ian turned his head to the side, seeing his name and number located on the stall door. He grinned, no wonder people kept calling for dick. Someone had been kind enough to put his number up and send willing participants his way. 

The words started to blur, distorting into shit he couldn’t recognize. Even his own name. Dark clouds moved to the front of his mind, pouring mass amounts of black rain against him. Pounding down, beating down fast. Trapping him. 

Ian tried to breathe his way past the oncoming panic attack. Feeling his heart gallop in his chest, his hands started to tingle, and twitch and his body seemed as if it was on vibrate. Trembling in place. Sweat broke out on his body, slicking his hair back and he was frozen. Up to his knees in water so black, so dark, he couldn’t see the ground. 

“Shit…” Ian whimpered, grabbing onto both sides of the stall as they started to change. The metal walls, painted with those words, faded into the rough, wet, slick bricks. He tried to dig his fingers in, to hold himself in place but the gaps weren’t wide enough.

Ian was panting heavily, feeling that panic start to set in as he looked around. The four walls of the stall now curved. Lined with dark and broken bricks, covered in mold and moss, chipped in places and climbing high into the sky.

The well. Ian was stuck in that well. The one from his canvas. The circular opening was far, too far to reach up and grab, to pull himself out of the rising water, now up to his hips. The guy on his knees was gone, leaving him absolutely alone. Drowning. The sky darkened, shutting out the sunlight. Sliver by sliver, the darkness was creeping over until the last remaining slice of sunlight was on his face.

“Help me…” Ian whispered, and his eyes closed, and a tear ran down his cheek…

“Damn, that was a big one.”

Ian opened his eyes and he was back in that bathroom. Four walls made of metal, no longer the rounded sides of that dark, nasty, condemned well. There was no water at his feet, only his jeans and the faceless guy looking up at him with a smile, the corners of his mouth sticky. 

Ian took a deep, almost helpful breath and shoved the guy back a step, nearly knocking him from his knees to his ass. He pulled his jeans back up, breaking the guys stare from the tattoos on his left thigh. 

“So, can I get your number?”

He seemed hopeful, still smiling, not even bitching that he apparently just took a load down his throat and it was clear he wouldn’t reciprocate. Ian grabbed his bag off the back of the door and jerked it open.

“Uh, your number?”

Ian rolled his eyes and pointed to the number. “Knock yourself out.” He jerked open the stall to find blue eyes; Mickey walking into the bathroom. Blue eyes raked over his clearly disheveled appearance, jeans still unzipped, face flushed from his awful orgasm and the fact that brown eyes was still on his knees. 

“Learn to fucking knock.” Ian huffed and quickly looked at himself in the mirror for any signs about his little swim. His eyes were wide, a little too wide. Red, but not from weed this time, but from fear, hopelessness. 

“Public bathroom asshole, don’t need to fucking knock.”

Ian smiled as Mickey snapped back at him, turning to the opened stall to see his latest warm mouth standing, hard as a fucking rock. If Mickey seemed disgusted by the fact that at least one of them was gay, it didn’t show.

“Get the fuck out.” Mickey scuffed.

Ian turned away from the mirror, trying to keep the fact that he was still currently freaking out to himself, and watched as Mickey stepped aside and let brown eyes stumble from the stall and practically run out of the bathroom. What was he doing? There were 4 open stalls he could have used, and he watched as Mickey checked all of them, to make sure they were alone.

“Something I can help you with?” Ian asked, annoyed yet curious as to why they needed the bathroom empty. 

“We alone? Or you got someone stuffed up the back end?”

Ian grinned. This guy was too much. Already assuming he liked to take it up the ass, as if he didn’t have top tattooed on his forehead…oh wait, he didn’t. Something to think about for later. 

“Is there a reason we need to be alone?” Ian reached for the buckle of his belt, tapping his index finger against it. “Unless you’re gonna take a knee, we aint got fuck all to talk about.”

Dark eyebrows rose high up on Mickey’s forehead at his suggestion and it was very entertaining. Ian knew all he needed to just from the lift of those eyebrows. Surprised, annoyed. Maybe even up for the idea. 

“No? That’s really too bad, but I have somewhere to be.” Ian winked as he headed for the door. 

“Just hold the fuck up!”

Ian turned and it was his turn to lift his eyebrows in question. He really didn’t have anywhere to be, back in bed, sleeping off the rest of that weed from last night and that freaky out of body experience, but nothing that couldn’t wait. But he didn’t to hear what Mickey wanted.

“Pussy move out there Gallagher, ditching your own show to get some shitty head.”

Ian huffed out a laugh. “Shitty head for damn sure, but a pussy? Guess you don’t know as much as you think you do. I never stay for that shit.”

Mickey scuffed. “Then why fuckin bother?”

“That, is a damn good question.” He replied honestly, one hand on the door, ready to slip out. “But if I answered that, that means I give a fuck what you think, and I really don’t.”

“Fine, have it your way. Stomp around like a pissy little girl and let all that so called talent go to waste.”

Ian stopped, one foot out the door. So called talent? He liked to believe he could take a lot of shit from people. They could insult his looks, his crazy ideas, friends…if he had any, his judgment or his taste in men, but he would be damned if someone pulled his talent into question.

Mickey was trying to bait him. Saying just the right shit to piss him off, to trick him into revealing something he shouldn’t. Something that would make him show some sort of emotion towards what was happening. Too bad he knew better. Too bad he was an expert at this game and didn’t take the bait as easily as someone else would have. 

Ian took a step back and let the door slowly swing closed. He turned on his heels and leaned back against the door frame. It took a moment to study Mickey. He looked pissed off, irritated. But why? Over his own decision to ditch his own show. His own future. 

“I’m going to choose not to comment on that and ask you why you give a shit.” Ian met Mickey’s eyes, unafraid. He didn’t fear anything like this shit. Not fist fights or people like Mickey who thought they were better than everyone else. “Hmm? It’s not like it’s your future on the line here.”

“Because you’re wasting that shit.” Mickey replied just as irritated. “Not to mention you’re wasting my fucking time, theirs too since they drag their asses out for that shit.”

Ian took a step forward, getting into Mickey’s personal space. “I didn’t ask for your help, Mickey. I don’t need shit from you, so don’t go there.” He pointed to the hallway. “And them? I didn’t drag them here, I didn’t ask them to come down here either.”

Mickey got right back in his face, those eyebrows set in a hard line. He was just as angry as he was, and they were fueling each other. Fire with fire. A candle, burning from both ends until it was nothing more but melted wax that someone would scrape into the trash. Totally forgotten. 

“Fuck you Gallagher! I offered professor Adams my help because if you fuck up, it makes him, Sasha and the entire school look bad.”

Mickey's finger was very close to his chest. If he took took deep a breath, they would have connected. As close as they were, Ian could feel that thrumming electricity between them, cackling and raising the hair on his arms. It felt good, it felt warm and new and exciting. Ian almost wanted to move forward, to connect them and see how much better it felt then right now.

He was irritated, angry and aroused. Ian hadn’t felt that last one mixed with the others before. Or at all recently. Sure, he used sex to self-medicate but that was more to keep his mind empty and his body tired than it was for relief, or fun. This felt different. And at the moment, Ian wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight Mickey or to fuck him.

“I don’t control what they do or don’t do Mickey. Whether they see my work or not, doesn’t dictate this school’s credibility or Adam’s, and you don’t know a damn thing about Sasha so keep him out of this.”

The bastard smiled. Ian played right into his little trap. He should have pushed that door open and walked the fuck out, his mistake and the only time it would happen with Mickey. He was learning that Mickey was getting way too close for comfort. Getting into his mind and making him question himself. 

“Did I hit a nerve there Gallagher?” Mickey grinned.

Ian clenched his jaw. 

“Don’t tell me Sasha is your boyfriend.”

Ian clenched his fists. The urge to fuck had been pushed aside, leaving the urge to fight at full force. Sasha was not his boyfriend. Not even his friend. Just a likeminded individual who he happened to not hate. 

“I’m gonna give you one chance to shut the fuck up. You keep pushin and you’re gonna lose some teeth.”

It wasn’t often that he gave people warnings about an upcoming punch to the face. But Mickey was new around here and a warning was as friendly as he got lately. One warning was pressing it, there wouldn’t be a second one.

“Think I’m scared of you Gallagher?” Mickey scuffed and widened his legs. “Just because your skin looks like a bad Rob Zombie acid trip and your face is a damn pin cushion, doesn’t mean you’re a badass.”

Ian grinned. He wasn’t that stupid. There would be no taking that bait. Not for anything. “How about you do us both a favor and stay the fuck away from me? You hate me, I hate you, simple shit. Keep to your own lane and I’ll do the same.”

Mickey shrugged and Ian gave a curt nod. They had some sort of agreement. The fuck off kind. It’s not like their chosen professions crossed paths very often, painting pictures and taking pictures were two very different things. They wouldn’t have any classes together for one, and unless Mickey decided to sub for Sasha again, there was a good chance they would never bump into each other.

“Good!” Ian smiled, mimicking those fake emotions he had been practicing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” he turned towards the door, finally able to leave.

Until Mickey opened his mouth again. 

“Next time you bend over for Sasha, maybe have him go a little deep to change that attitude.”

That was the final straw. Ian paused. His right palm flat against the door, curled into a fist. He could ignore the comment itself, he’d heard much worse growing up gay on the South Side. He’d been in the center of a fag bash circle, getting beaten bloody until Lip saved him. Lip saved him until he was able to save himself. The problem Ian had right now, was the tone. Amusement. His voice was dripping with it.

Ian swung fast, he pulled back his fist and put his entire body into it, turning at the same time he struck, using every inch of his 6 foot 1, 190 pound frame until his fist connected with Mickey’s face. He struck so hard, Mickey’s head snapped back, and he had to reach to grab the stall to keep from falling. 

The pain in his fist was instant and he knew he broke his thumb. He’d curled his fingers around his thumb, trapping it against his palm, instead of keeping it outside and ended up breaking it. You’d think he’d know better after all those years boxing. There was just some shit you couldn’t change. 

“Shit!” Ian hissed and tried to shake the pain off, literally shaking his hand, now streaked with blood. 

That small motion gave Mickey enough time to shake off the blow, turning to train those murderous blue eyes on him. A steady stream of blood leaked from his nose, making his skin look ghostly white. 

“You motherfucker!”

Ian didn’t have time to brace himself as Mickey charged him, grabbing him around the waist and shoving him hard against the tile wall. Ian gripped Mickey’s back but when his head snapped back and hit the wall with a sickening crack, his hold slipped. His vision blurred. One minute Mickey was shoving him and the next, Ian watched meaty knuckles flying into his face making his head crack back a second time.

The pain in his hand was nothing compared to the pain waves that wracked his head. But it wasn’t unwelcome. Ian found peace in moments like this. They brought a certain amount of clarity to his mucky, gray tinted world. It let it ground himself as he struggled to his feet, feeling the urge to swat at the starburst behind his eyes each time he blinked. 

“Again.” Ian mumbled, smirking and tasting blood on his tongue from his own bloody nose. He spread his arms, hands curling into fists, feet spread wide as he took his stance. “Again!” he raised his voice when Mickey made no move towards him.

“You’re fuckin crazy.” Mickey took a step back.

Ian took one forward, keeping the same distance. Mickey seemed a little freaked. And why wouldn’t he be? Two whacks to the head had him asking Mickey for more, literally. 

Ian laughed, sounding a little evil, even to his own ears. “What, you lose it Mickey?” Ian spread his arms out, egging him on. “You start with fightin words and now you can’t get it up for me?”

Blue eyes widened. Ian was baiting him now. Using everything he had available to him. Even his own homosexuality. If anything could make men fight, it was sexual innuendo carelessly thrown at them. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey snarled, wiping blood off his chin with his hand.

“Fuck you Mickey.” Ian countered back, grinning. Hoping to get as bloody as possible before someone won. He didn’t even care if he lost. The winner gets nothing, but blood and Ian was eager to give it. “How about you sac the fuck up and back up your shit.”

Ian saw the moment it dawned on Mickey what he was doing. And it was clear that it would take more than one punch to get Mickey to fully engage with him. “Who’s the pussy now Mick?”

Mickey charged him again, pushing his arms down with a force that Ian hadn't expected from someone so…small. He was strong and fast. Faster than him. Mickey punched him in the stomach, hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs, hard enough for him to double over, gasping.

“Last chance to walk away Gallagher.” Mickey huffed, breathing hard.

Ian was still doubled over, and Mickey still had a handful of his hoodie, keeping him from moving. “Go to hell.”

Mickey’s knee came up and smashed him in the face, nearly making him black out. Ian felt the blood flow double and knew it was streaming down his face. 

“You just don’t quit, do you?” Mickey shook his head, panting hard.

Ian was falling back, and he didn’t try to brace himself this time. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would be conscious for, that knee to the face made his brain slosh back and forth inside his skull. Being kicked around like a soccer ball. The more he blinked, the longer it took to focus, and his vision started to cloud, those spider webs linking around him, dragging him down.

“I quit a long time ago.” Ian whispered and his voice was barely a whisper.

He fell to his ass, back up against the wall but he kicked his leg out, kicking Mickey right in the balls. 

“Cheap shot!” 

Mickey fell to his knees, grabbing his junk, that angry face curling up in pain. Ian laughed, or thought he did. It came out garbled as blood trickled into his mouth. “Hope you feel that next time you bend someone over.” Ian pulled back his leg until his knee touched his chest and kicked forward until the heel of his boot connected with Mickey’s face and he heard a loud crack.

Broken nose.

The result was instant. Mickey howled and fell back onto the bathroom floor. No longer griping his junk but cradling his face. 

“Asshole…” Ian closed his eyes, letting that actual darkness taking over. He didn’t feel the pain anymore. He was numb again. And it felt so fucking good not to feel. He wasn’t angry or hateful, no sorrow. Just nothingness. A sea of calm, clear water.

Even if he couldn’t willingly open his eyes, it didn’t mean he was totally gone. Mickey’s loud groaning echoed in the bathroom, his own little whimpers of pain were there also, and he could hear when someone opened the door and walked in. 

“What the fuck?” 

Ian laughed. Full blown laughter. They were both broken and bleeding, laying on the floor. He didn’t recognize the voice that found them, but he could bet they made a pretty picture and the guy was clearly horrified. 

“No doctors.” Ian mumbled, the last of his energy draining onto the floor, along with his blood.

He learned a long time ago that doctors and hospitals were useless. Hopeless. They made people believe they were alright because they were physically healthy. As if that was all that mattered. That your body was fine. They didn’t give a damn about the mind. The soul. The two things that make a person a person. As long as your body was fine, you should be too. Yeah right. 

The doctors would clean him up, patch him up and he’d be deemed ‘fine'. Even when he was far from fine. He hadn’t been ‘fine' in over a year and it wasn’t likely to change. Yes, he could probably be given some type of medicine for his mind. To cure him of those dark thoughts and ideas. But then what? Did they have medicine to cure sorrow, grief? Heartache? Could they mend his shattered soul like they would bandage his broken thumb or Mickey’s shattered nose? 

No. A big fat no. More like a fuck no. A hell no. His problems were deep, deep beneath his skin, the layer of muscle tissue and fat, passed blood. Embedded deep in the architecture of his bones. Somewhere that no medical doctor, no therapist would ever reach. 

“All they do is lie.” Ian mumbled, wrapped his arms securely around that darkness and let it take him. He didn’t care where or for how long. As long as he didn’t have to walk around and pretend to be fine anymore.

All doctors do was lie? Wrong. All he did was lie. Ian was not fine, he was not okay. Maybe he never would be.

**

Ian tipped his head back against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose to keep the blood from flowing again. He’d woken up in the infirmary, with cotton stuffed up his nose and a few ice packs on his face. 

It must have looked awful, all the blood, but it didn’t hurt. Not really. He had a pretty bad headache, but it could have been worse. He’d had hangovers worse than this. A slight pound in the back of his head and he knew the bruises would look so much worse. He’d most likely have two black eyes, that shit would probably spread to his nose as well and given the fact that he was a ginger, he colors from the bruises would clash with his hair.

Motherfucker.

The part that pissed him off the most, was that he was still stuck in the same room with Mickey. Sitting on the opposite end of the room like they would spread their invisible illnesses if they got too close. Maybe that was true, he didn’t want to catch Mickey’s dumbass side. Although Mickey might benefit from the closeness, maybe some of his talent would rub off.

Ian was waiting for Ace to show up, or Lindsay. Fighting was a big fuckin deal with you joined a fraternity. They didn’t need any outside heat included with the other shit they had to deal with. Fighting would probably land him probation with a damn fine for the trouble. When one person was capable of making the entire Chapter look bad, it had consequences. He would most likely get stuck doin Lindsay’s dirty work like he was a pledge again. 

Running stupid errands, laundry for a month, cleaning the damn house…mansion. Being a glorified ‘slave' at the next party. Made to restock on food and booze but not get to consume either. Or he wouldn’t even be allowed to attend. Considering the little beef he had with Lindsay, that was a very real possibility.

Ian glared over his hand, looking to see Mickey holding his nose as well. Serves him right. This shit was his fault. “Asshole.” Ian muttered and it sounded distorted from his blocked nose. It also hurt to try and roll his eyes.

“What was that mumbles?” Mickey glared back.

Ian scuffed. The only thing that made this worth it, was the colorful bruises forming on Mickey’s face and the large ice pack on his lap. “I think you heard me the first time.”

He waited for Mickey to engage in the argument he started but it didn’t happen. Mickey opened his mouth, ready to hurl an insult at him, but ended up closing his mouth. Great, now he’d have to poke at him, so he wasn’t stuck in the uncomfortable silence until the damn nurse showed up, or until Lindsay did.

“This shit is your fault.” Ian didn’t bother to look over to hear the irritation coming off him in waves. 

“My fault?” Mickey growled. “How the fuck is this my fault?”

Ian moved so his head was no longer tipped back and he release his nose. “You’re the one who came barging in lookin to fight. I was just tryin to get my damn dick sucked and you wanna talk.” Yes, technically he started the actual fist fight, but the fight was well under way before that punch. Mickey kept pushing and poking and instigating, of course he was bound to lash out eventually.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a fuckin douche bag, I wouldn’t have had to say anything in the first place.”

Ian rolled his eyes and hissed when his head pounded all over again. He snatched up the ice pack and put it on top of his head. “What I do or don’t do, how I am, and why, is not your goddamn business. You don’t know a damn thing about me.” Which was probably a good thing. He kept to himself for a reason. To not pollute the good or decent people around him. To not spread his own brand of misery.

“Yeah, well maybe if you learn the proper way to deal with your issues, I wouldn’t think twice about you.”

Ian was up off the table before he could blink. He gripped the front of Mickey’s bloodied shirt and yanked him off the table as well, getting right into his face. “Unless you know what my issues are, you need to shut the fuck up.” 

Maybe it was how quick Mickey’s comment affected him or the speed in which he reacted to that comment, but Mickey didn’t try to push away this time. He didn’t try to jerk away or fight him back. Not even a snide remark to his snappy words. Mickey just…stared at him. Letting himself be backed up against the bed, with him all up in his face. 

Ian didn’t say anything. He just stared right back. Studying the flecks of light green hidden within blue eyes. Seeing his eyes shimmer from the awful, florescent lighting doctors and nurses liked to use. Mickey was sturdy against him, pressed together from their thighs to their noses that barely touched. Ian could hear his soft, steady breathing, he could feel the quick patter of his heart and the heat from his body sinking into his own. 

And then Mickey said something he never expected, in a tone that didn’t fit his asshole demeanor. 

“What happened to you?” 

Ian was taken back by the sincerity in his voice. Like somehow Mickey knew he’d suffered some sort of tragedy and only just now realized it by his behavior. He didn’t know how to react to that. He could react to just about anything aside from pity. 

The door opened behind him and he heard the exasperated sigh from the bitchy nurse but paid her no mind. He couldn’t stop looking at Mickey. At how his eyebrows changed from pissed off to worried. Concerned instead of angry. 

“Jesus Christ Gallagher!”

Ian turned to see Lindsay standing behind the nurse, looking as angry as he felt during that fight. He turned back to Mickey, they shared a look…one he didn’t understand, and let him go. Backing up so Mickey wasn’t leaning back against the bed. 

The nurse gave him a mean look and he shot one right back at her. “Took you long enough.” He griped and grabbed his bag before he stormed out of the room, knocking shoulders when Lindsay didn’t move fast enough.

“What the fuck happened?” Lindsay trailed after him.

Ian ignored him and headed towards the exit of the school. He just wanted to get back to his room and smoke and drink and get his dick sucked until he passed the fuck out and got those sympathetic words out of his mind.

What happened to you. 

Words that no one bothered to ask him. They just assumed he was another moody, bitchy art student that didn’t care about anyone for no reason. Half of that was true. He didn’t care about anyone. But he liked to think he had a good reason. Or maybe that reason wasn’t relevant anymore. How long after your brother dies can you use that excuse for the way you act? Was there a limit? He had no idea but even to him he was sounding like a broken record.

“Ian!”

He was halfway to the house and Lindsay was still trying to talk to him. Ian spun around so fast that Lindsay almost ran into him. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

“I can’t do that Gallagher. There are consequences…”

“Yeah, yeah. Spare me the fucking speech. I’ve heard that shit before.” He turned to finished his walk to the house. “Just do what you gotta do and leave me alone.” He slammed the door to his room, dumped his bag and fell back against his bed. 

His head was spinning. Maybe it was the concussion or from blacking out or blood loss, but it made all the shit in his head twirl and soar at warp speed. Making him dizzy, loopy. He needed a distraction. One big enough to make Mickey’s words disappear.

Ian dug into his pocket, hissing when the brace on his thumb got stuck and pulled against the break, and managed to wiggle his phone free. He dialed 1 on his speed dial and waited for an answer.

“Gallagher, long time no see.”

Ian tried not to hear the joy in that comment. He didn’t want any feelings, not from anyone right now. “Look, I need you. Like really fuckin bad right now.” He mumbled, already unsteady on his feet as he changed his shirt.

“It’s been weeks Gallagher. Why now?” 

“Do I need a damn reason?” He growled back. He didn’t want to play 20 questions either. He just needed a simple yes or no. Yes and he was on his way out, or no and he’d go to plan B. 

“I gotcha covered. Meet me in the same spot in 20 minutes and don’t forget my shit.”

Ian grinned and closed his phone. He needed a bag change. He dumped all the shit out on his bed and exchanged some of it. Books for his half full sketch pad, headphones and iPod for his bong and lighter, rolling papers, and also tossed in a new box of condoms and lube. He made sure he had his wallet and keys, stuffed his phone into his pocket and crawled out the window.

Good thing this expensive ass house had a decent set of gutters. He tossed his bag over his shoulder, gripped the gutter and shimmied sideways until he could scale down two floors to touch the ground. It would have been harder to use the door. He would have had to answer a dozen questions and he was too sober for that.

It took 15 minutes to get to the right spot and 5 to pick up that special requested item, so Ian took off as fast as he could, trying not to draw attention to himself. The darkness helped, so did the lack of lighting behind the building. This was just what he needed for tonight. He would meet up, get what he needed and hopefully be spaced out enough to forget Mickey’s words.

What the hell happened to you.

Now that was a damn good question.


	3. Moon Light

Perpetual Darkness  
Chapter 3- Moon Light

By the time Ian stopped by the 24 hour donut shop, because people wanted donuts at all hours of the night and made the long trip around the campus to get to the theater, he was five minutes late. 

Air burned his lungs as he yanked open the door and walked inside. It was dark, quiet but he knew his way around. They had been meeting on and off for nearly five months. Not exclusively of course, because neither of them could do that even if they wanted to, and they really, really didn’t. But it was simple, they had an understanding. And the sex wasn’t bad at all. 

On the stage was a single light lit in the corner facing a dark red curtain and Scud was already waiting for him. Ian nearly ran down the incline to get to the stage as quickly as possible. His body ached for it, burned for the need to connect with someone he cared about. Who cared about him, even if it wasn’t in the way that he needed? 

Scud, real name Josh, was a friend. No, scratch that. Scud was his dealer. They's met at an art gallery nearly 6 months ago, right around the time he walked into that tattoo shop. Scud was a sculptor, not clay or anything like that, but with metal. Welding pieces together to make shit no one even thought to make. It was impressive. Scud also happened to be the biggest stoner he knew. Where he got it and how he paid for it was a mystery and luckily for Ian, not his business.

“You’re late.”

Ian grinned as he scaled the steps in two easy strides. Scud was standing near the curtain, arms crossed. Pissed. Ian could relate. “They had an extra long line tonight.” He wiggled the box of hot, fresh donuts. “Unless you don’t want them.”

“Give em up Gallagher.” Scud reached for it, but the box was yanked away. “The hell happened to your face?” 

Ian tossed his bag to the ground, not answering his question. “You bring what I need?”

“Aside from my ass?” He chuckled and dug through his mess of clothing to wiggle the little bag at him. “This?”

Ian groaned. Scud's weed was something else. Nothing he’d ever tried was as good as that shit was. It was enough to make him blank out days at a time. Keeping him high enough to forget all the bad shit he didn’t want to remember. But it wasn’t free. Not even with the added fuck or the fresh donuts, Scud always made him talk before they fucked. Always.

Ian didn’t like the talking part. None of it. But he didn’t get what he wanted until he opened up a little. It usually made him feel like shit after, but that’s what the weed and fucking was for. Scud made him come down, just to lift him back up again and if he had to tell the truth, it made him feel a little better. Not that he told Scud that, the fucker would never let him live it down.

“Yes, that.” He shrugged off his hoodie and tossed it aside. The moment he was in reach, he pulled Scud against him, pressing their foreheads together. “I fucking need it bad.”

Scud nodded and pushed his hands up the front of Ian’s shirt. “And you know how to get it. Don’t you?”

“Can we not, please?” that was the closest he’d ever come to begging. “I just can’t right now.”

“Smoke and talk, deal?”

Ian nodded quickly and ran his hands through Scud's shaggy brown hair. “Thank you.” He whispered and moved his hands down Scud's back, he always had too many layers of clothing on. “Take some of it off.” Ian moved back to give him room.

Scud reached out to hold the back of Ian’s neck, so he didn’t go too far and began taking off layer after layer of clothing. 

Ian leaned down to nibble on his lips, tasting sugar on him already. “Hurry up.” Patience was not a virtue of his. He didn’t like to wait. Waiting meant time lost. Time better spent doing something important.

When Scud was down to his last layer, leaving him in only a baggy pair of jeans and an old concert t-shirt, Ian bent down and gripped his thighs, easily lifting so he could wrap his legs around his waist as his hands moved to support his ass.

“Kiss me.” Scud breathed, digging his nails into Ian’s hair. 

Ian let Scud coax him into the kiss. Doing everything possible to urge him to keep going. Teasing his mouth, licking against his lips, nibbling on them before quickly dipping his tongue inside. Ian groaned and lightly squeezed his ass, thrumming with satisfaction as Scud gasped between twists of their tongues.

He backpedaled to the closest wall, right up next to the curtain. So close the scratchy red fabric brushed his arm, and slowly slid against the wall until his ass hit the floor. Scud settled in his lap, eagerly grinding down against him, pulling a deep demanding groan from him.

“You got one ready?” Ian panted as he kissed across Scud's scruffy jaw until he could nip his ear.

“Course I do.”

Ian plucked the joint from behind Scud's ear and leaned back while he fished a lighter from his pants. “Light that shit then.” 

The flame danced it’s way from the lighter and it was pretty and dangerous enough to grab his attention. He felt like that most of the time, like a lighter. Once brand new, shiny and full of fuel to keep him strong. But each time someone used it, that fire burned a little hotter, being used over and over again, then stuffed away until it was needed again. Or sometimes it got lost or passed to another person until there was nothing left inside. Leaving just the hard plastic shell, waiting to be cast away into the trash. 

“So,” Scud took the first deep hit, breathing the smoke into his lungs like air, “what’s up with the colorful face?”

Ian took it from his fingers and took a bigger hit then Scud did. The result was instant, probably not, but it felt like it was. His muscles relaxed as he took another one, clearing that fog in his mind. Pushing the clouds away. He was aware of Scud’s fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt, revealing his chest, like he always did.

“Got in a fight, some asshole who can’t mind his own business.” 

Soft hands moved over his skin, tracing the various tattoos on his chest. He didn’t really let anyone touch him like that. Not intimately because that’s what this was. Scud got him in a way most people didn’t, and the best part was, he never gave him shit for it. For feeling how he felt in that moment.

“What happened?”

Scud was tracing the tattoo over his heart. It was a literal heart, an anatomical heart. Not like those shitty Valentine’s Day ones. But a bleeding heart. A vine of barbed wire wrapped tightly around it, pushing the sharp points into various places of the heart. 

It was the first tattoo he had. The one that felt like if you touched it, your hand would come back bloody, tainted. It was dark, he knew that. But it was how he felt when he got it. Thinking about Lip, the pain so bad it felt like his heart was getting sliced to pieces.

Ian put the joint between Scud's lips. “Sasha had an emergency, but Adam’s had this douche bag present my shit. Got pissed that I left.”

Scud chuckled. “That’s nothing new. You never sit through the whole thing.”

“That’s what I said. Tryin to get my dick sucked and he wants to talk.” Ian shook his head, ignoring the way Mickey’s words bounced around in his brain. “Told me to deal with my issues.”

“Shit, that’ll do it.” Scud leaned down to kiss over the tattoo, the joint in his fingers off to the side.

Ian closed his eyes, slowly letting his fingers run through Scud’s hair, leading him. “Made me think of Lip when I didn’t want to.”

“You can’t just block him out.”

“I can try.” He whispered. Scud’s tongue circled the bar in his nipple, quickly flicking it with his tongue. “Fuck.” 

Scud moved to the other one, giving it the same treatment, teasing him. It sent chills down his body, making him live in the moment for once, instead of living in the past, or trapped in his mind.

“The anniversary is coming up.” Ian looked down as Scud’s exploration stopped and blue eyes looked up at him. “The closer it gets, the angrier I am.” 

Each day was like living in a friendly version of hell. It was hell, but its like everyone put masks on and dressed up, socializing, pretending they weren’t doomed for eternity. Ian saw faces of the people he loved in those masks. Fiona, Debbie, Carl and Liam. But it wasn’t real. That’s what his hell was, his own personal hell, made up of the people he loved so much it hurt. 

“They keep calling me.” Ian chuckled. Scud leaned forward and blew smoke into his mouth, shot gunning it. “I wish they wouldn’t.”

“They miss you man, you should see them.”

Ian scuffed. “And do what, hmm? Have dinner, make small talk? Or maybe we can go see him. Act like it wasn’t my fault that he’s gone.” His voice was thick, emotional. Just as Scud intended it to be. He didn’t want to talk. He never did. Ian wanted people to leave him alone.

“You know they don’t think that.”

The fuck they didn’t. He could see it in their faces when they looked at him. Silently placing blame. Well deserved blame. He could hear it in their messages on his phone, the ones he never answered or replied to. They blamed him for Lip’s death because it was his fault. 

“Yes, they do.” He mumbled and looked away. 

“Tell me about it.” Scud prompted as he leaned to the side and grabbed the box of donuts. He peeled a sticky one apart and shoved half into his mouth before giving Ian the other half.

Scud and those damn donuts. Ian smiled around the mess of sugar in his mouth, quickly swallowing before Scud accused him of wasting it. 

“Tell me Ian.”

“Why?” Ian looked away, licking the last of the glaze from the corner of his mouth. “It won’t change anything.”

“No it won’t. But it’ll make you feel better to talk about it.” He tore into another donut as he waited.

This was like intense therapy. Donuts weed and sex in exchange for him talking. It seemed like a good deal. Scud didn’t grill him on all his shit, he accepted it and tried to convince him he wasn’t crazy. That his actions over this past year weren’t unreasonable.

“I told you most of it.” Ian started, hoping to skip the majority of the talking if Scud kept nodding like that. “I was trashed, at a party at a different campus. I wasn’t supposed to be there, that was my weekend to be at home.”

Scud quickly rolled another joint before he lit it.

“Fiona and Lip knew I had two weeks off for Spring Break and threw me a welcome home type party.” He smiled, blinking away the tears in the corners of his eyes. “You’d think I had been gone for years, instead of a few months before for Christmas.”

Scud held the joint in between his lips and slowly started massaging Ian’s shoulders.

“But they never needed a reason to throw a party.” Ian’s smile slipped as the first of the guilt trickled in. “I blew ‘em all off. Went to some frat party cuz this guy I liked was there. Stupid.” He shook his head. “Fuckin stupid. Got drunk, was too high and called Lip for a ride.”

“And he came?”

Ian nodded, took a quick hit before he continued. “Had to drive over an hour to come get me at 3 in the morning. He wasn’t mad because he had to pick me up, but he was disappointed because I bailed.”

Lip had been quiet that night. The whole time he only said two words. “Get in.” At that time, Ian didn’t see the big deal. So he skipped a party at home, big deal. The Gallagher’s always had a party, it was hard to keep up with them. He’d said as much to Lip, and he got that look in return. 

Disappointment.

It was worse than anger. He’d shrugged it off and they started to drive back. Ian’s only thoughts had been when he was going to get sick again and if Lip would be able to stop on time if he did.

And then he was gone.

“We crossed an intersection and a car clipped the left side of the car, Lip’s side. Another person from the party, that one idiot who didn’t get a ride.”

Ian remembers the song that had been playing when it happened. 'Life Is Beautiful' by Sixx A.M. Ironic considering a life was lost that night. He fucking hated that song now. 

“Fucker ran a red light, survived.”

Scud cupped his face, brushing away silent tears with his thumbs. “And you survived.”

Ian nodded. The two people that didn’t deserve to be alive, were. And the one person who should have lived, died. The universe had been looking down on them that night and laughed. 

“Yes, I survived, even not wearing my seatbelt and so out of it that I couldn’t even react to any of it. Lip was sober, had his seat belt on and he died the moment the car hit us.”

The tears in his eyes had long since died up. He wasn’t sad about any of this. He was angry. Flushed with guilt. He carried it like a chip on his shoulder. Weighing him down, dragging him down. 

“That’s not how it works Ian. You can’t do that shit.”

Ian huffed. “The hell I can’t. If I would have been home, none of that shit would have happened. He wouldn’t have been in the car, or on that damn road, he wouldn’t have died hating me.”

Scud grabbed his face and roughly shook him. “He didn’t hate you Ian. One single instant of disappointment doesn’t decide hate or love. He loved you, all the time.”

Ian didn’t reply. It wasn’t worth it. He heard all that shit before. It never made an impact. His mind had been made up the second he woke up and realized Lip wasn’t sharing a hospital room with him. 

He told this story each time. Starting at the same place and ending at the same place. Scud only knew what he decided to share with him. It would have been easier to share the whole story and for Scud to pity him. But it was useless. Pity wouldn’t bring Lip back. It wouldn’t make all this okay and it sure as fuck wouldn’t make him feel better or to stop hating himself.

Hate. The four letters on the knuckles of his left hand. The letters bled down to his wrist where a thick chain curled around his arm, moving past the scar on his forearm from where Lip’s seat had broken and sliced into his skin, it curled up the muscles on his arms and ended with two sharp, 3D looking hooks that dug into the meat of his shoulder blade. 

“Light another one.” Ian muttered and peeled the shirt the rest of the way off his shoulders then moved to pop the button on his jeans. 

Weed made him hard. All the time. It just did. Even talking about his tragic story, he was hard. The smoke helped him escape his mind enough to enjoy it before the darkness came crashing back. 

Scud quickly rolled another up another one and handed it off to Ian as he slipped out of his shirt and wiggled his pants down enough to kick off one leg.

“My bag.” Ian nodded and slipped his hand inside his jeans to grip himself. Stroke after stroke brought him back into this moment, not even his broken thumb was enough to stop him.

Scud came back quickly, and Ian dug through his bag and grabbed the bottle of lube and put a condom between his teeth. Scud settled back on his lap, knees on the floor, ass hovering in the air. 

“You don’t gotta stretch me.”

Ian already had two fingers slick and groaned as he pushed them inside, feeling him already open and slick. 

“Told you,” he groaned into Ian’s neck, biting as sucking at jumble of letters tattooed on the left side. “Told ya you were late.”

Ian chuckled and pulled his fingers out to grab the condom and tore it with his teeth. “You do it here, hmm? Pants around your ankles while you opened yourself up?”

Scud nodded and his legs shook as Ian slid the condom down his impressive length. “Fuckin missed this shit.”

Scud was so easy to please. The donuts alone would guarantee a fuck. The size of his cock was too. Scud had jerked off in front of him, coming just from staring at him. A damn size queen. It was such a rush. He didn’t demand commitment or love. Just good weed and great sex.

“Slick me up.” Ian panted and watched Scud drip a good amount to slide down his dick before he spread it down his dick in a tight grip. “God, I missed this.” 

Images of blood and smashed cars vanished from his mind, stuck behind that impenetrable wall he created to keep his mind from totally falling off the deep end. He learned to compartmentalize. With it up, he could focus on now, on Scud kneeling on his lap, about to make him forget all his shit, at least temporarily.

Ian held the base of his dick with one hand and gripped Scud’s hip with the other, slowly guiding him as he sank down. “Shit…” he hissed and watched with hungry eyes as he disappeared into that tight heat, feeling Scud’s legs shaking the entire time. 

“Fuck, it’s deep.” Scud paused as his ass was full seated, trying to regulate his breathing.

Ian tipped his head back the second Scud started to move, pulling groan after groan from him as he fell into a steady ride. Pushing up and down with his thighs, gripping both of his shoulders, pretty much using him to make himself feel good and he was okay with that. He wanted to be used. 

“Ian…” Scud whined, slowly bouncing up and down.

Ian looked at him, seeing his hair sticking to his neck, his chest pumping fast as he tried to breathe. Legs shaking each time he moved but Ian could hardly feel any of it. 

“Hop up.” Ian tapped his thigh and waited as Scud slipped off him and knelt on shaky legs. “Spin for me.” Ian twirled his finger and Scud followed until his ass was in his face. He gave it a hard slap, hearing it echo up the seats in the audience. He scrambled to his knees, not even bothering to get fully naked, and moved between his legs. 

“Fuck.” He groaned and pushed inside, sagging forward as that feeling finally registered in his brain. Ian put both hands on Scud's shoulders and started to pound into him, giving it to him hard and fast, chasing that feeling of bliss before it escaped.

“God, keep going!” Scud groaned and put his chest flat against the stage, giving Ian full control of his ass. “So deep like this.”

Ian looked down the length of his back and suddenly brown shaggy hair became short and black. Scud’s needy voice changed to Mickey’s angry grunting, that heavy breathing that sounded like a growl. 

“No,” Ian whispered and closed his eyes. Fighting to keep him out of his mind. He didn’t want Mickey like that, did he? He didn’t think so. But that’s all he could hear and feel. “Fuck...fuck.” Ian dipped his head down, licking a long line up Mickey’s spine…no, Scud's spine, snapping his hips faster, harder, until that unmistakable sound of skin slapping together clouded his mind.

“Right there Ian, fuck, I feel it.” Scud rose up and slipped one hand between his legs, frantically trying to bring on his orgasm faster. 

Images of Mickey flashed through his mind. His face, his scowl, those electric eyebrows. Harsh words and fists and blood. The sound of him huffing and laughing, the corners of his mouth tipped up in a smile. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come, God!” Ian leaned over the length of his back, one arm looping around his neck to give him leverage, the other pulling his ass apart. “Gotta come for me, like right now!”

Scud nodded, his hand moving at a blinding speed. The moment Ian leaned forward, making his back bow and slamming against his prostate, he came. “Now Ian, now!!”

“Shiiiit!” Ian growled as he came, feeling Scud spasm against his front, panting and whimpering. His eyes closed as his hips kept up that slow pump, sliding in and out until every aftershock was gone. “God…”

Scud started to laugh, to giggle as he sagged forward. “Damn Gallagher, what got into you?”

Ian huffed and slowly pulled out. He slid the condom off and tied it before setting it aside. What got into him? Fuckin Mickey did. Coming to his mind at the wrong damn time, making him see shit that wasn’t supposed to be there. 

Mickey had gotten to him. “What happened to you?” Like Ian would even know how to go about answering that question.

“That’s what ya get for makin me open up.” he used quotation fingers for that last bit as he laid flat on his back and reached for the box of sugar.

“You liked it.” Scud huffed back and fell beside him, snagging the donut he stole. “And those are mine.”

Ian ignored him and grabbed for another one. They kept the silence the rest of the time, waiting until the box was empty to redress and part ways. Nothing touchy feely like that. A simple smile from Scud and a wink in return before they split. This is why he indulged Scud’s little therapy session. Shit was easy, simple and he walked away with the rest of that bag of weed. 

Ian didn’t walk back to the frat house. He was too stoned to try sneaking back in and too annoyed to use the door. He walked around the empty campus instead, trying to forget conjuring up Mickey like that.

The school looked so small with everyone around. Empty, it seemed bigger. He didn’t have to swat people away as he walked or had people bumping into him. Or people walking in on him in the bathroom…Mickey. Ian shook his head, trying to get him out.

The fountain at the far end of campus seemed like a good a place as any. He sat on the ground, back against the bench and reached into his bag for his sketch pad and started to draw the fountain.

Smooth strokes over the white paper, that soothing sound of the pencil making its way across, creating line after line until a fountain was made. Ian didn’t draw the water though. What sprayed out of the top was a mix between roses and stars, shooting up into the sky. The ones that managed to fall to the ground ended up shattered, broken legs off the stars and wilted rose petals. But the ones that shot up high enough into the sky remained perfect. 

The shutter whining of a camera caught his attention. “Son of a bitch.” He muttered and saw Mickey from the corner of his eye, taking a picture of the sky. Ian looked up, trying to see what he saw. What was so good about a sky? It was dark, a few stars here and there, the moon. Nothing special but Mickey looked at it like it was. 

Mickey hadn’t seen him yet and Ian did his best to keep it that way. Staying still and aside from breathing he didn’t make any noise. What the hell was he doing out here for anyways? Ian didn’t stare at him, that would only draw his attention. Instead, he looked at the fountain he drew and wondered if he could ever draw or paint something that didn’t have that touch of darkness. 

“Jesus…” 

Ian huffed and dropped the silent act. Mickey spotted him. He glanced in his direction, unable to make out his entire face in the dark but he could see those blue eyes as clear as day, staring at him. 

“Don’t make me get a restraining order.” Ian looked away and went back to his pad, trying to change the fountain into something happier without erasing anything. 

“What makes you think you were here first?” Mickey grumbled as he walked closer.

“Didn’t say I was,” he swept his finger over the paper, smearing lead into a dark smear, “it was just a warning.”

If he had to explain why he acted like this around Mickey, acted like the biggest asshole in the entire world, he couldn’t give you a straight answer. There was just something about him that made Ian go on the defensive. Maybe it was their odd first meeting, or maybe it was because Ian knew Mickey had that way about him.

Mickey seemed like the intuitive type, the type that could take one look at you and know how to take you apart. Mickey was slowly talking him apart. So, he did what any other person would do, he lashed out. Made it into a fight to keep Mickey from digging his hooks into him.

Of course, that was before his Mickey peep show he’d held in his mind. Fucking stupid. Wrong. Annoying.

“Well, thanks for the warning Gallagher,” Mickey hissed and stopped when he was near the bench. “Figured you’d be sleeping it off.”

Ian cracked a smile as he looked up. “You don’t hit as hard as you think you do.” Mickey’s face was a mess though, black eyes, swollen nose with tape over it, trying to brace the break. Even his voice sounded off because of it. Ian knew he didn’t look much better but at least he didn’t have a broken nose. “Thought we had an agreement?”

Dark eyebrows rose in question.

“Leaving each other alone.” Ian tossed his pad and pencil to the grass and reached behind his ear for the joint. “Find another place, yeah? I’m too tired for round two.”

“First of all,” Mickey took a seat at the far end of the bench, “I didn’t agree to shit. You said that. And for two, I need to be here. The rest of the campus is too crowded with tress to see anything.” 

Ian looked up, noticing that not one tree blocked their view. Something he didn’t notice before. He sparked the joint and took a long drag. “What’s so damn special about it anyways?”

“About what?”

Ian pointed his finger up and made a swirling motion. “Can’t hardly see a damn thing out here.” 

“That’s cuz you’re not looking.” Mickey huffed and sat back, messing with the long lens of his camera. 

It should have been weird, them sitting and talking…almost talking, especially after he thought about Mickey during sex. They just beat the fuck out of each other not but a few hours ago. But it was calm. Quiet. Like in his head quiet. Or that could have just been the weed, but it had him moving to pass Mickey the joint.

Mickey worked his eyebrows and Ian just offered it again. “It won’t bite.”

Mickey scuffed and took it, letting their fingers brush and Ian had to bite his cheek to keep the unexplained groan inside. It was pure energy when they touched. Zapping like lightning. Ian had felt something like it during the fight but chalked it up to anger, to rage. But he felt it again right now when it was calm.

“Just smokin this shit out in the open…” Mickey shook his head but didn’t deny it and took his own hit.

Ian stayed quiet as he watched Mickey’s lips fold around the end, then his cheeks when they hollowed out, showing his sharp cheekbones. Ian looked away when he caught Mickey looking through the corner of his eyes.

“I got a card.” He chuckled when Mickey huffed again. He was kinda cute when he got huffy. “Not that this shit is because of that, but most don’t know the difference.”

Mickey shook his head and passed it back, eyes a little wide. “No way that’s from a fuckin doctor, damn.”

Ian smiled. “So, are you stalking me?”

Mickey snorted and covered his mouth with his hand. “Fuck no.”

“You sure? It’s kind of flattering but a little creepy.” Ian arched his eyebrow and offered the smoke back to Mickey.

“Just wrong place, wrong fucking time.” He yanked it back.

They sat in relatively easy silence and passed it back and forth until Ian stubbed it out on his boot. “What did you mean?”

Now it was Mickey’s turn to arch his eyebrows. “When?”

“You asked what happened to me.” Ian couldn’t help himself. He had to ask. Maybe he was wrong about Mickey having that intuition, maybe he was just obvious. “Why does something have to be wrong?”

“Maybe because you’re so damn hostile.” He gave a little nod. “You go from zero to sixty in half a second. Gotta have a story behind it.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how hostile he was. How angry. But Mickey was a stranger. Ian shouldn’t care what he thinks. He didn’t owe Mickey his life story. Or at least the one for this past year. So why the fuck did he want to tell him? To prove that he had a reason.

Maybe it was the something about Mickey that muted his mind. Put a stop to all the awful shit he thought about. All the dark, negative shit. Maybe that’s why he wanted to share. Because with him around, he didn’t think about anything but what they currently talked about or fought about. 

“Calm down Gallagher, you don’t owe me an explanation. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

Ian didn’t comment on that, just in case it came out harsher than he meant. Instead he picked up his pad, pulled the sheet off and tossed the fountain to the ground. “No worries. It’s not like I’m an open book.”

Mickey chuckled and bent down to grab the loose paper. Ian pretended not to notice. It was just a doodle. He didn’t care if Mickey wanted to look. He just started on a new one. Drawing the same fountain but this time, he wanted to try and draw it how it was. Perfect and beautiful. No roses or stars falling. Just water. But each time he tied to draw the curve of a wave, he would stop. 

“You can’t do it, can you?”

Ian looked over, noticing that Mickey moved a little closer to peer down. “Do what?”

“You can’t just draw the damn thing how it is. You gotta alter it somehow.”

Ian played with the piercing in his lip, trying not to snap with some shitty reply. It wasn’t needed right now. Mickey wasn’t criticizing, he sounded like he was actually curious. “Guess not. I just don’t work that way, ya know? I see shit a different way.”

Mickey held up the other paper. “A darker way.”

Ian nodded. “It’s like I can’t even move my hand.” He tried to draw the water again and his hand started to shake. “I just can’t.”

“I guess falls under the “make your own art” category?” Mickey lifted his eyebrows. “Unlike me taking pictures.”

He should say sorry. It would have been the polite thing to do. But was he sorry? Pictures were nice but it was hardly art. Whatever you took a picture of already existed. But when he drew something, or painted it, or sculpted it, it was new. Something no one had made before. One moment between them where they seemed to not hate each other wouldn’t change that for him.

“Look,” he turned to look at Mickey, trying his hardest to not be such a dick, “when you take a picture, what does it look like when you develop it? The same shit when it’s right in front of you, right?” Mickey gave a small nod. “So, where is the beauty? Why would you want to see the moon in a picture when you can just look up and see it?”

Mickey considered it for a moment before smiling. “I can see your point. But what happens when something extraordinary happens? Something you may never see again?”

Ian chuckled. “Like the moon?”

“Oh, fuck you.” He smiled back and tongued the corner of his mouth to cover it up. “Get your scary ass up here so I can teach you a thing or two.”

Ian was momentarily paralyzed by that smile. He caught the full force of it before Mickey covered it up and it had the hair at the base of his neck standing on end. Like that feeling you get from really amazing music. Goosebumps. Ian blinked it away and moved to sit on the bench, abandoning his pad.

“You’re not gonna change my mind.” Ian huffed and tried not to touch him. He was far too close for comfort. “And I’m gonna take the scary thing as a compliment.”

Mickey snorted, “don’t know why you would.” He reached into his pocket for his smokes and quickly lit one before clicking on his camera. “Tell me what you thought I was taking a picture of.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s not like I took that much interest,” Mickey scuffed, “but you were looking up, so I assume the sky. The stars or the moon.”

Mickey nodded. “Yeah, I did. But what you don’t get is, there is so much more to see than just the moon.” He moved to the right picture and showed him. “See?”

Ian leaned closer and was surprised to see the moon, closer than it appeared in the sky. It was big and bright, glowing. Untainted by a single cloud or smog from the city. Even the stars looked brighter. 

“You see it?” Mickey asked and when Ian didn’t reply, he clicked to the next picture. “See?”

His mouth dropped open a little. “A shooting star.” He nearly smiled as he glanced up quickly. It was long gone, and Mickey managed to snap a picture before it left.

“Now you’re looking for that shooting star because it looks better when you see it in person, but it’s gone.” Mickey snapped his fingers. “Gone, just like that.”

Ian knew how that felt. Lip had been there one minute and gone the next. Just like that shooting star. “I guess pictures aren’t as awful as I thought.”

Mickey laughed and shook his head. “Gee, thanks. How wonderful of you to agree.”

Ian lightly shoved him with his elbow, why? He had no fucking clue. Shit was getting weird. Too comfortable. Too close. “I guess without that picture, that shooting star didn’t really happen.”

“Of course drawing or painting, sculpting Even, is original art. You make something out of nothing. I get that.” Mickey zoomed in on the shooting star, making it brighter. “But some shit needs to be in pictures so we don’t forget it, so we can see that shit whenever we want.”

Well, at least he knew where Mickey was coming from now…sort of. And it seemed like Mickey caught his earlier aggravation as well. Ian moved over a little, putting more space between them and leaned down to get his pad. 

“All that and I can’t even draw shit as I see it.” Ian laughed sadly and kept trying to draw that damn water. “Something so simple shouldn’t be so fucking hard.”

“If it was easy, it wouldn’t be worth it.” 

“You wanna draw the water for me then?” Ian wiggled his pencil, slightly surprised at himself for asking. He didn’t even like people ogling his shit when it was done and on display and he damn sure didn’t let people watch over his shoulder when he worked. Much less ask for their damn help. 

What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t do this shit. It must be the weed. It HAD to be the weed.

“If I could draw, I wouldn’t take pictures Gallagher.” He pushed the pencil away. “You do it.”

“I can’t!” He whined and crumpled the paper. “I draw whatever comes to mind. I draw normal shit like that all the time, but I can’t make it exactly like it. It has to be different.”

“Every time?” Mickey asked and scratched his chin.

Ian nodded. “Here, now you watch.” He moved to sit on the ground again so when Mickey scooted over, Ian could feel his knee pressed against his left arm.

For a third time, he drew that damn fountain. All the dips and curves, the frilly designs on the sides. Mickey didn’t speak the entire time. He just watched and Ian could feel him breathing. “This is where it gets odd.”

Without thinking of how the fountain should look, Ian just drew. Instead of roses and stars dripping from the top, it was snakes. Each a different type, a different shape and color. Different lengths, all slithering down the fountain. 

Ian moved his hand to the side and glanced up. “See? It just aint workin.”

Mickey nodded. “I see that, but water or no, that looks dope.”

Ian smiled and ripped the page and tossed it to him. “Knock yourself out.”

“Damn, something I didn’t have to pay for from the great Ian Gallagher.” Mickey held it up, waving it around for all to see, or no one. “Gonna have to tell people. Now they can get their shit for free.”

Ian shoved him as he stood up, trying not to smile when Mickey laughed. How the fuck did they end up like this? Smiling and laughing, sharing pictures and points of view. It was freaking him out a little. 

He stuffed his pad into his bag and stood up, slinging it over his shoulder. “Gonna take off, all this nice shit is creepin me out.”

Mickey stood too, smiling. “Should we fight? Ya know, just so we don’t get soft?”

Ian thought it over. It would be nice to feel that spark between them again, but he decided against it. Nice wasn’t supposed to happen. “Ask me tomorrow, I might change my mind.”

“Tomorrow? Don’t think so Gallagher. We can’t be seen together being all nice and shit. What would people say?”

Ian smiled, enjoying this little game and judging by Mickey’s smile, he thought so too. “I think as long as we call each other names people will believe it.” He winked and turned on his heels. “Night asshole.”

“Fuck you too Gallagher.” Mickey yelled back, making sure to tuck that piece of paper into his pocket and turning the other direction. 

For a typical Friday, there was nothing typical about it. Instead if scowling as Ian walked back to the house, a small smile played on his lips and he knew that as soon as he woke up, that feeling might be gone. He was determined to enjoy it while it lasted.


	4. Two Lost Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian finally confesses his feelings to two people he never expected to listen or understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, was caught up with another random story lol but I'm back with an update. Enjoy

Perpetual Darkness  
Chapter 4- Two Lost Brothers

Ian stood to the side as the 11:15 Sunday Mass hoard was scaling the steps at a slow pace. Of course he would pick today of all days; a Sunday that is, the busiest day of the week for Old Saint Patrick’s Catholic Church, to show up unexpected. 

They had been coming to this church since they were kids and Fiona forced them to make the walk, or pile in a cab, or the back of Kev's truck, just to make it on Sunday morning. He used to hate it. Still did, if he was honest with himself. He has no idea why he was here. Why he stood to the side in ratty clothes, scuffed shoes, covered in tattoos and a nasty attitude. He didn’t belong here. He never had. 

Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best. The girls in pretty dresses with ribbons in their hair, reminding him of when Debbie was that age. The boys decked out in mini monkey suits, little bow ties and shiny shoes, like Carl had to. Liam wasn’t forced to go, lucky him. By then, Fiona had given up on trying to make them a regular, church going family. 

Parents that didn’t speak, held hands, dragging their children along. Old ladies, sending nasty looks at him when he stepped out when the steps were cleared. He wanted to flip them off, or just say the words. But he didn’t. He just didn’t feel it today. Ian didn’t feel anything. 

Not even after his semi okay night. Meeting Scud and talking, the poor attempt at therapy that actually helped. Even the sex only kept him happy for so long. Hell, just talking to Mickey for that one hour made him happier than the sex did. His priorities were fucked to say the least. 

Mickey…Christ, that put him through a loop. Their banter was fun, they shared a few interesting points of view. It had been nice. They weren’t friends. Not even close. But waking up the next morning, he decided that he didn’t hate him completely, which was a step in the right direction.

Speaking of steps, he nearly missed the last one. Too deep in thought. The giant doors now stood closed in front of him. Looking like the gates to Heaven, or Hell, depending on you. Him; probably headed downstairs. For some reason though, he couldn’t open them. He couldn’t even try to reach out. Physically it wasn’t hard, mentally and spiritually, yes. 

The last time he came here, Lip dragged him along. Our of all six of them, Lip was the only one who went semi regularly. He had a few things to talk about, not with him, and decided that Ian needed to join him. He never felt so out of place in his entire life. Even without the tats and piercings.

But now? Now that he was mostly full of hate and despair, a ghost of his former self, maybe he wouldn’t even be welcome inside. He could see it now, the statues on the top would come to life, descending down on him the moment he reached for the door. Or Holy water would rain down on him, keeping him out. 

Ludicrous. 

Ian was here because he was lost. Lost souls either end up in a graveyard or a church. His hand shook right before he touched the door and he yanked it back. Brushing off the shiver that accompanied that awful feeling of unwelcomeness. Instead, he spun around and planted his ass on the first step, giving the door his back, like he did with the rest of the shit he couldn’t handle. 

He lit up a cigarette and stared at the tattoos on his hands. Too bad his answers weren’t buried under all that ink. He was forced to figure them out the hard, painful way. He jumped when his phone rang loudly, making it bounce off the church walls and echo back at him.

Ian dug through his jeans until he found it. Restricted number. He ignored it with a swipe of his thumb. Until it rang again. And again. On the forth attempt, he picked up, sounding just how he felt, like shit and a little pissed off.

“What?” he barked into the phone around a breath full of smoke.

“Shit Ian,” Sasha barked back. “Maybe I won’t call you then.”

“Fuck, my bad Sasha. The number showed up restricted.” 

“Yeah, I busted mine. Using a Jayden's.”

"Who?" 

Sasha sighed. "Just my friends boyfriend."

Ian stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe. “You back in town? Oh yeah, thanks for the heads up by the way.”

Sasha sighed. “It was a family emergency Ian. I didn’t plan in going out of town.”

“No, but you can’t text me? Takes half a second to tell me someone else is fuckin with my art.”

In a way, he was kinda glad Sasha hadn’t told him. Because he met Mickey. He had no idea if meeting Mickey was a good thing or not but it remained to be seen. 

“Okay, that was poor planning on my part. But I heard about what happened. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ian narrowed his eyes. “It wasn’t a big deal Sasha, I handled it. You didn’t need to know.” Why the hell Sasha cared if he got in a fight or not, he had no idea.

“I didn’t need to know? The entire school knows about it. You should have told me.”

Now he sounded hurt. “It wasn’t a big deal. I got in a fight with him, we both got a little bloody and I got put on bitch duty in the Frat house.”

Sasha was quiet on the other end.

“Wait, how the hell did the school find out?”

“Ian, what the fuck are you talking about?” Sasha asked, confused.

“The hell do you think I’m takin about? The fight, with Mickey? It wasn’t a big deal and didn’t need to tell you. How the whole damn school found out is a mystery though, probably dumbasd Lindsay.”

“You got in a fight with Mickey? Like the guy I assigned for your show?”

“Uh, yeah…?”

“What the fuck Ian? I had to pull a shit load of strings to get him to come here and do that. And you two fight?"

Ian ignored half his crazy, Russian ranting. Most of which he didn’t understand. “Hold the fuck on, if you didn’t know about Mickey and the fight, what the hell were you talking about?”

“I’m talking about him selling every single piece of your art in that show. The bastard sold all of it. Even the shit you put in from years ago.”

Ian just sat there staring at the ground. Every piece? All of them? How the hell did Mickey do that and why didn’t he know? 

“Ian, did you hear me?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah, I heard you. Are you sure? Every piece? Because I had over 80 in there.” 

Sasha laughed. “Yes Ian, all 88 of them to be exact. And now you’re telling me you decided it was a good idea to beat the shit out of him?”

Fuck. Now he felt bad. But not too bad because the fight was before his shit was sold. He had a hard time selling one or two throughout the season and somehow Mickey sold them all?

“How?” Ian asked as he put Sasha on speaker phone and searched the school website for any information. “How the fuck did he sell all of them?”

“I want to know too. He’s good at what he does Ian. That’s why I called him. Good thing I did. But I think you owe me and him an apology.”

“Won’t say it to you because if you’d have given me a heads up, I'd have handled it better. And two, he started that fight. Decided to stick his nose where it didn’t belong, so I broke it.”

Apparently, Sasha hadn’t seen Mickey yet if he didn’t see the bruises and bandages on his nose. He was the one telling on himself, assuming Sasha meant the fight and not the show. 

“Jesus Ian, that shit isn’t funny.”

Ian started to chuckle and Sasha just hung up on him. He shrugged it off, what comes around goes around. That was true about everything. It would be coming around for him one of these days, probably soon. 

Ian stood up and walked back to the door. Without thinking, he slowly pulled open the door and walked inside. He was greeted by no one. Not the priest or nuns, or any stragglers. They were off preparing for their Mass at 5. Soft music played, seeming to echo into the tall ceiling. The rows and rows of pews were empty, bibles laying on the seats instead of in their rightful place behind each pew. The nuns would do a sweep and fix it before more people came. 

He didn’t have the nerve to go to the front row and sit down. It was too close. He didn’t feel right sitting anywhere but at the back. Confession box was out as well, he had far too much to confess and you had to repent for it. He wasn’t feeling that either. So, where did that leave him?

Ian walked to the far side, away from the pews, to a giant table full of candles. Each smaller than the rest, some new, unlit. He dropped a 50 in the donation box, way too much, and grabbed one of the long stemmed matches. He grabbed the smallest, warped looking candle and brought it closer to him. He struck the match and the tip flared to life and he lit the candle with a shaky hand. 

“Miss you Lip.” Ian whispered and shook the match out. He stood there, for what seemed like hours and watched the candle burn. Realistically, Lip would never hear his words or be able to say them back. It was more about faith, hope. The hope that Lip was in a better place. One where he couldn’t see him, or talk to him. Never again. 

Ian walked away before he blew it out and swiped the candles off the table with his arm. Wrecking those thoughts and wishes others sent to their family, their loved ones. He walked to the back row and took a seat. He didn’t look up to the front, he didn’t try and pray. Ian just sat there, letting the atmosphere of the place sink into him.

“Ian Gallagher,”

Ian looked up to see Father Callaghan walking towards him. He was old, like 80 old. White hair, wrinkles, old man smell. All of it. Ian couldn’t believe this guy was still around, after all these years. It was impressive.

“Father Callaghan,” Ian stood and offered his tattooed hand. Callaghan didn’t bat an eye at them or refuse his hand, he offered his own, pulling him into a hug Ian couldn’t refuse.

“So good to see you Ian.”

Ian offered a genuine smile when he pulled back and sat down. Father Callaghan took a seat one pew in front of him, arm over the back. 

“It’s good to see you too.”

“How long has it been?”

Ian quickly counted in his head, “about 6 years since I was last here, but over 10 since I saw you.”

Father Callaghan nodded. “It’s a shame, I missed you and your family in these seats. Seeing all that red hair.”

Ian smiled. He wasn’t sure if Father Callaghan knew that only he and Debbie had red hair but the sentiment was nice anyway. That they were being thought about once in a while. “Yeah, it has been a long time.” He couldn’t look into those kind eyes for more than a minute or two before looking away. The eyes were the windows to the soul and he was afraid of what might be lurking in his eyes. Of what the Father might see in them. 

“I’m afraid you missed Mass for a few hours. Our next one is at five.”

Ian nodded. “Yeah, I remember. Uh, I’m not actually sure why I’m here. I didn’t intend to come here but…”

“Tomorrow.” 

Ian nodded. Tomorrow. The one year anniversary of Lip’s death. One year of bad choices and pain, of heartache. “Yeah, tomorrow.”

“Have you talked to them?” 

Ian shook his head. “Not since…I don’t know what to say.”

“I think they would be happy with just seeing you Ian. Saying hello, letting them know you’re okay.”

Ian looked up, blinking through the wall of tears trying to break free. “But I’m not okay Father. I haven’t been in a year.”

“Maybe they need to know that too. I’m sure they are in a similar state right now.”

Ian knew that was true. He knew they were hurting inside like he was. That they might need him, or want him to be around. Or maybe they had moved on. Gotten along with their lives. Unlike him.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I have too much bad shit with me now,” he didn’t flinch when he cursed and Father Callaghan didn’t point it out, “I know I would make it worse for them and for me.”

“When I heard about it, I came to your house. Fiona, she told me you had left. Right away.”

Ian nodded. The moment he left the hospital, alone, he headed home, packed up the remainder of his shit and never went back. He ignored their calls and invites over the first few months. He shut them out. Locked himself away to wallow and suffer in his own grief. The bad part was, he hadn’t left yet.

“I couldn’t be in that house without him. They couldn’t even look at me, for days. We avoided each other, we didn’t hold hands at the funeral. We didn’t stay up late at night crying together or sharing memories.”

Father Callaghan stayed silent, listening.

“They blamed me. I blamed me. I know now, that they would say it wasn’t my fault, that no matter what, it would have happened at some point.” Ian wiped the tear that slid down his cheek. “I felt it when they looked at me. And when they didn’t. There was this big elephant in the room. Lip was gone because of me.”

“It’s true, if you hadn’t needed a ride, the accident wouldn’t have happened. But, you had no way of knowing it would. We are close to death with every moment we are alive.”

Ian looked at him with wide eyes. No one ever admitted the truth. That it had really been his fault after all. It took an 80 year old priest with a heavy set of balls to do it.

“Death is around us all the time. When we sleep, or when we eat. As we live, it follows us around. There is no way to escape it. We can fight it, with prayer or with medicine, with hope. But we cannot outrun it.”

The tears started to fall. One after another, after another. Like marching soldiers on a mission. He was powerless, just as he had been that night. 

“You need to let go of that anger Ian. What happens to us, in the big picture, is out of our control. You can’t predict when an accident will happen. You need to forgive yourself, you need to let all that emotion in and you need to let them forgive you.”

Forgiveness. Was it real? Could he forgive himself for what happened? Could his family? Lip didn’t have that luxury. 

“I don’t think I can.” He looked up to watery eyes. “The one person I need to forgive me, can’t. I can’t let that emotion in because it’s too painful. The pain that I’ve lived with this past year, is nothing compared to the shit I'd have to deal with if I let it in.”

“It will probably be the worst pain you can possibly imagine. But you are stuck Ian. You survive, but you no longer live. The sooner you let it in, the sooner you and you family can begin to heal.”

Ian didn’t know if he could do that. If he wanted to. Right now, that pain was the only real thing in his life. It kept him from losing himself. Who would he be if he didn’t have that darkness inside him? 

“I think too much time has passed. Fiona…” he shook his head. “I don’t think she could forgive me.”

“She already has.” 

Ian narrowed his eyes in question. 

“After Lip’s accident, she started coming here again. She was like you, unable to walk in at first.”

His eyes widened. How long had Father Callaghan been watching? And Fiona came back? 

“She felt out of place coming after so much time had passed but she was always welcome here. At first, she would sit alone, like you. Then she came to Mass, only to leave in the middle, crying.” He sighed in sadness. “It got better. She became stronger. She sat through her first Mass after 6 months of coming. Began to be a part of our church again. It brought her happiness.”

“Good.” He looked away, unable to let him see the relief he felt. “That’s good that she came back, that you could help her.”

“She helped herself Ian. She dealt with her pain, her loss and now, when she comes here, she lights two candles.”

Ian felt that lump forming in his throat. This is the shit he didn’t want to feel. It already hurt and this was just something simple. Not directly related to him.

“She lit a candle for both her lost brothers. Sending hope and prayer that they might find their way to happiness."

Fuck. Fuck. The tears were coming. He couldn’t deal with it. He wouldn’t. Ian rubbed at his face, violently wiping the tears away as he stood. “I’m sorry Father, but I can’t…” he moved out of the pew. “I just can’t.”

Father Callaghan didn’t try to stop him. You can’t force people to face their demons. He had decided to become friends with his instead of dealing with them, instead of conquering them. 

He pushed open the doors and the deep breath he took didn’t help. His chest was too tight, a lump forming in his throat that kept him from breathing. His eyes watered and his heart was pounding like a drum in his chest. He was trapped. 

Ian barely made it to the last step of the stairs before he drew in a deep breath and screamed all his anger, all his pain and his loss, out into the air. Screaming until his lungs hurt, until his heart bled. He screamed until he didn’t have a voice and it made no different. Nothing changed. He didn’t feel better. Lip was still dead and as Fiona said, her brothers were lost.

**

By the time Ian made it back to campus, he was beat. There was no way in hell he was going back to the house, chores and being yelled at by Lindsay was not on the menu for today. Definitely not for tomorrow. 

The only safe option was the studio. Scud had failed to get him to open up, but Father Callaghan picked up the slack and got him to talk for once in 364 days. And like he knew it would, it didn’t make him feel any better. But worse. A million times worse.

Ian didn’t have his bag or his keys, he had left them in his room. The walk to the studio went by in a blur. Part of him was back in the church, trying to get forgiveness. The other half of him had died with Lip. 

The small sliver of the semi normal Ian Gallagher, as standing in front of a locked door with no keys and the campus was empty. He banged his fist down on it, the pain went unregistered in his mind. So he hit it again, and again. Making the sound echo in the empty hallway. If only his mind was empty.

“What the fuck Gallagher?”

Ian turned to see Mickey barking at him from the room up from his. Dark eyebrows drawn in a frown. They were so animated. Like they might jump into his hair at any given moment. It was rather comical and if he had been all there in his mind, he would have cracked a joke. Instead he turned and gave the door his back and slid to the ground.

“Ian?” Mickey tried again, using his first name instead. The guy looked like shit, and it wasn't just the black eyes and split lip. 

Ian didn’t answer. Why bother? He just kicked his legs out and his head back, closing his eyes. This was not his day, and it wasn’t even over yet.

Mickey walked slowly towards him, moving his camera to hang around his neck. “You okay man?”

Ian opened his eyes and Mickey was suddenly kneeling beside him, a worried look on his bruised face. “No Mick, I’m not okay.”

Mickey gave him a cursory look over. He looked a little more pale then he usually did, eyes red with dark circles under them. He was sweating too. He lifted a hand to Ian’s forehead, he felt a little hot, clammy too. Two black eyes and a split lip made him look about 10 times worse.

“Why are touching me?” Ian asked and leaned into his cold hand instead of pushing away from it.

“You don’t look so good man, you seem a little feverish.” Mickey didn’t pull his hand away, just studied Ian leaning against it. 

Ian smiled, noticing how soft Mickey looked. He was closer than he’d ever been. “You look really soft.”

Mickey’s eyes lifted in surprise. “Uh, what now?”

Ian chuckled, he kinda felt high right now. Distant. One of those out of body experiences. He didn’t feel like this was him. Like Mickey was with him, like he was an on looker. Watching from above. 

“Your skin Mick,” Ian’s hand came up somehow and he brushed a knuckle against his cheek. Even with the black eyes and the bandages on his nose, he was still pretty to look at. “Looks soft.”

Mickey chuckled and pulled one of Ian’s eyelids down. “Are you high right now?” 

Ian shook his head, wincing at the pain that flashed into his brain. “Wish I was. You got anything on you?” 

“Not on me man, but you gotta be on something right now. You need help home?” Mickey asked as he pulled back.

“No, can’t go back.” Ian took his hand back too and patted the ground next to him.

Mickey huffed and took the offered seat on the floor, far enough away so they didn’t touch. 

“Got fuckin probation for that fight,” he flipped Mickey off and got a smile in return. “If I head back, I’m gonna have to deal with that shit.”

Mickey elbowed him. “Next time, don’t start fights.”

Ian smiled. “I’ll have to remember that for next time.” Mickey smiled a little. “Left my shit in the house, my keys and my fuckin bag. The one place I need to be and it's locked." 

“That’s why you look like shit? Cuz you got in trouble and you left your keys at home?”

Ian nodded. "Most of it's from you." It was better than trying to explain all the shit he had gone through today. “Just need to escape all the shit from today.” He elbowed the door hard, hearing his elbow crack. “The one place I need to be and I can’t get in.”

Mickey knew some other shit had gone down. He could see it. He could feel it in the air that surrounded him. It was dark and painful. Kinda hard to look at. “How bad do you need in there?”

Ian looked over at him. “What kind of question is that? The only way for me to relax is locked behind this fuckin door.”

Mickey nodded. He understood that better than Ian might know. “Okay, let’s get inside then.”

Ian’s eyes widened. “You have a key?”

Mickey shook his head and moved away from the door. “No, but I can get you in.” he nodded for Ian to move away from the door.

Ian moved, scrambling on his hands and knees, eyes a little wide as Mickey bent down, eye level with the door. “Are you gonna break in?”

Mickey nodded and dug into his pocket to fish out whatever he had in there that may help. “Don’t get your hopes up Ian, I ain’t done this shit in a long time.”

Ian sat back as Mickey tampered with the door. He had his fare share of breaking into shit, his room mostly but that lock had been jimmied so much, a three year old Liam could do it. But this lock was decent enough to actually keep people out. He was kinda skeptical that Mickey could break into it.

“You can’t just hide in here you know.” Mickey bit his lip as he wiggled the door.

Ian narrowed his eyes. “Who the fuck said I was hiding?”

“Let’s see, you look like shit, you don’t have your keys and you’re afraid to go home. Sounds like hiding.”

Was he hiding? From what though? No parents, no family that wanted him, not even someone he was in love with. He was alone, as always. During the day, at night and all those excruciating hours in between. He had nothing to hide from but himself. 

He reached out, grabbing Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey stopped and looked back, eyeing the hand on his shoulder. “Stop, you can just leave it.”

Mickey turned on his feet. “What? Why?” 

Ian didn’t take his hand away, but gripped tighter. “Cuz it doesn’t fucking matter, that’s why.” He let go and fell back, leaning against the other wall. “You got better shit to do then help me figure out mine.”

Mickey just couldn’t figure Ian out. One minute he acted one way, then just like that, in the drop of a hat, he was someone else. “I decide what shit I get to deal with, not you.”

Ian huffed and ran tattooed hands through his tousled hair, gripping it tightly. “Fine, have fun with that.”

Mickey scuffed. “There ya go, hiding again. You’re not going to get anywhere doin shit like that.”

Ian had about enough of Mickey for today. What started out as friendly and almost flirty, turned into depressing, serious and a dash of angry. “I don’t have anything or anyone to hide from Mickey.” That got Mickey to look at him. “Yes, that’s the damn truth. I have no one Mick. Not one fucking person who gives a shit.”

Mickey could see the truth on his face. Maybe that was Ian’s problem. Maybe he had no one. “You wanna talk about it?”

Ian laughed, a rather scary sound. “And why would you want to hear about that shit? About all the no one I have in my life.” 

Mickey shrugged. “Why the fuck not? I ain’t got shit else to do and you keep actin like this and this budding career of yours is gone before it starts.” 

Ian just stared at him. Unsure if he was dickin around of if he really meant what he said. It still didn’t explain why Mickey cared. “So what, just trying to save my career?”

“Maybe,” Mickey said uneasily. “Or, maybe I’ve seen this shit before and I know where it ends.”

That is not what he had been expecting. Not at all. Maybe ammo to use against him when it was needed or to add to the misery of his life. Maybe just to offer him hope, like he was now. Dangling friendship in front of him just to take it away again. 

Ian met those blue eyes, unafraid for the first time, of staring for too long, that he might lose himself. Or Mickey might see him for what he really was. Poison. Broken. Alone. 

Mickey's eyes looked like a storm was moving in. Different shades of blue and gray mixing together. It seemed so stormy in there but he only felt calm when he was with him. “Why do you care?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, sounding lost and alone. 

Mickey moved across the hall, sitting next to him and this time, their shoulders bumped. Without looking over, he said the first thing he felt, the only thing he knew was true. “Maybe I don’t want to see you end up there.”

Ian felt his heart pulse. Not the vile liquid, the so called blood that kept him alive. His heart pulsed with something else, something good. The good that he only felt around Mickey, a guy he didn’t know. 

Ian was tired. Tired of today. Tired of the confusion. He leaned over and laid his head on Mickey’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to end up there either.”


	5. Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey manages to get Ian to open up a little

Perpetual Darkness  
Chapter 5-Savior

Ian wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, shoulder to shoulder, his head resting on Mickey’s shoulder and that incredibly calming silence. It felt peaceful. His head was quiet, he didn’t feel as numb as he had earlier at the church. He felt warm again, pressed up against Mickey’s side. His skin radiated heat, unlike him, he felt cold all the time. Lack of hope, lack of purpose would do that to a person.

“It’s quiet.” Ian finally mumbled. The sound seemed to echo in the empty hallway. 

Mickey nodded. “Yeah, campus is pretty much deserted.”

Ian shook his head. “Not what I meant.” He lifted his arm, that felt incredibly heavy for some reason and tapped the side of his head. “Quiet in my mind.”

Mickey nodded. “Is it always noisy like that?”

At first, he thought Mickey would shove him off the minute his head rested against his shoulder. It was a very personal thing to do with a stranger. Better left for family or lovers. Mickey seemed to take it all in stride, like a saint. He let him rest there, he let him take up his time-however long had passed and didn’t bitch about all the crazy leaking out of his ears. 

“Noisy?” he tried out the word and decided it wasn’t what he felt. “No, not noisy. More Like half empty all the time.”

“How do you get feeling back?” Mickey asked quietly and picked at his thumbs. 

Ian smiled. “I like that. Getting feeling back.” Mickey chuckled. “I paint. Draw. Drown in sex or booze, drugs. Pretty much anything that helps in the slightest “

“Does it help? The booze and sex, or the drugs?”

Ian shook his head. “I think it’s just a mind trip, literally. It tricks you into thinking it’s helping but in reality, it’s just bullshit.”

Mickey was tempted to lay his head down against Ian’s, but he didn’t. He leaned it back against the wall and tried to decide what the best thing to do about this was. 

“The painting helps though, right? I can see it in your work.”

Ian tilted his head up to see blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. “What do you mean?”

“Sasha showed me your work from your freshmen year here. It was bright, a flow of light colors and it had this aura to it, like happiness.”

Ian stayed quiet, unable to look away.

“But when he showed me your stuff from this past year, I could see it. The change. It was really intense Ian.” Mickey suppressed a shiver just thinking about some of those paintings. 

“Darker, you mean.” 

Mickey nodded. “You paint with emotions, feelings. The good shit and all that dark shit. I know it’s none of my business, but it takes a serious change in someone’s life to make a difference like that.”

Now was the time he was supposed to lash out, to jerk away. To hide his feelings behind his wall of ink and despair, to protect himself. Like he did with Fiona, with Lindsay, even Mickey the other day. But now, he didn’t feel backed into a corner like he had before. It was just quiet.

“Everyone has a tragic story Mickey.” Ian nuzzled against Mickey’s shoulder to let his shirt soak up that one tear that fell. “You can’t be an art student without some sort of fucked up tragedy.”

Mickey chuckled. “As dark as that sounds, you’re fuckin right. I think it’s a prerequisite to even apply to schools like this.”

That pulled a grin from him. “See? Finally, we agree on something.”

The laughter died down after a few minutes. Not the funny kind of laughter but when you have to laugh or else it would morph into a scream, or tears. Laughing was so much safer. 

“You talk to anyone about it?” 

“Few people tried to get me to open up,” he gave lazy air quotations for it. “Not really shit I like to talk about, ya know?”

“I do know. You talk about shit and it makes it worse. Makes you have to face that shit.” Mickey shook his head. “They say it helps in the long run but…”

It sounded like Mickey was a victim of that “open up and share your feelings” shit. Like someone forced him to sit down and list all the shit he wasn’t okay with. 

“If someone has to force you to talk about that shit, it has zero effect. If you’re not ready to face it, what makes them think badgering you for hours will help?”

“I guess if they force you, it really means they have shit to deal with too.” 

It was quiet for a few minutes again and they fell into it so easily it was staggering. Most silences were full of awkward tension, the need to fill the empty space with meaningless words. Not with Mickey. 

Until Mickey broke the silence.

“Look, I know you hear this shit a lot, from people you probably actually like, but uh,” Mickey licked his lips nervously, “you wanna talk about it?”

Mickey was right. For the entire year, that’s all anyone had wanted. For him to talk. To open up and tell people how he felt. But the only reason they wanted him to talk, was to get over it. To make him share stuff he wasn’t ready to face. Like they had a hidden agenda. 

When Mickey asked, it was just that; a question. No hidden agenda, no reason to make him talk aside from general curiosity and the willingness to listen. It's what made him decide to tell him, a damn stranger.

“I lost my brother last year, car accident.”

Mickey sighed again. He didn’t say sorry; it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t change it; he couldn’t bring him back. “It was your fault, wasn’t it?”

Ian nodded. “Yes, it was. People, my family, friends, tried to tell me it was just an accident. A luck of the draw and that I shouldn’t blame myself.” He gave a dark chuckle.

“They say that because it’s easier than the truth. It’s easy to say, ‘it’s okay, or don’t blame yourself,’ than it is to say it was your fault.”

Mickey wasn’t blaming him. He was telling him to take responsibility for his actions. It was the most honest thing he’d heard in a long fucking time.

“It was an accident, but it was still my fault. If it wasn’t for me being a dumbass, he would have been home. Safe and with our family.”

“You said a year, a year when?” 

Ian lifted his arm and looked at his watch. “A year in about three hours or so.”

“It’s today?” Mickey asked with wide eyes. He expected to hear him say it was next week or a few months from now. 

“Yes, today is the big day. At 3:45 A.M. on this godforsaken day, Lip was driving me home. I was drunk, high as fuck and bailed on their homecoming party for me.”

Mickey closed his eyes tightly. It really was Ian’s fault. He didn’t know why that bothered him so much, why his heart clenched in pain at the way be said those words like they meant nothing. No emotion whatsoever. 

Ian was startled as Mickey’s hand came up and squeezed his arm. ‘I’m sorry' was useless but this, just that light squeeze was what he needed. He put his hand over Mickey’s and squeezed back. 

“You feelin any better than before?” Mickey asked, not taking his hand back. If you asked him why, he couldn’t tell you. He couldn’t tell you why he cared about Ian Gallagher or why he tried to help. 

“Like when I first got here?” Ian asked and felt Mickey nod. “Yeah, my mind was numb again, trying to block that shit out. But now it’s just quiet.”

“Bet you don’t get a lot of that. Especially since today is…” he let the sentence trail off. 

“Quiet is good. I don’t get a lot of that.” Ian moved his head enough to see Mickey looking down at him and that spark that had been there from the first moment, was back again. Sparkling like electricity. “This is gonna sound fuckin weird, partly because it is, but it’s only quiet around you.”

“You’re right, that is fuckin weird.” He smiled and covered it up by thumbing the corner if his nose, he winced when he pushed against it, stupid thing was still broken.

Ian laughed and the weird tension was broken. “Yeah, told you. But my brain isn’t numb, so I can’t bitch about the change. Especially when it’s a good change.”

“Yeah, no need to jinx it. I guess just enjoy it while you can.” Mickey was still smiling. For no reason at all really. Ian benefiting from them talking, or from being around him, was weird. Weird but good. 

“I will do that.” He laid his head back down, a smirk on his face. “So, aside from saving me from self annihilation, what did you have planned for tonight?”

“Just sorting through all the shit from your show. Gotta process the orders and make sure it’s goin to where it needs to be.”

“Oh yeah, thank you by the way. Sasha told me you managed to sell all my shit.” He grinned and lightly elbowed him until he laughed.

“I didn’t sell shit Gallagher, you did. If your work had been shitty, not even I could sell it.”

Ian finally moved from his place on Mickey’s shoulder and sat back, unable to contain his grin. “Well, well, that is a damn fine compliment if I ever heard one.”

Mickey snorted. “You’re hearin shit Gallagher. I would never compliment you.”

When Mickey winked, his insides fluttered. Making his gut twist and turn and burn with heat. That was the last thing he needed. To catch ‘feelings’ heavy quotations on that word, for the one person who seemed to like him a little. Or enough to tolerate him. 

“Oh yeah, I forgot our little agreement, asshole.” They both laughed. “Don’t need anyone to realize we aren’t completely fucked up.”

Mickey nodded and elbowed him. “So, you still want in there?” he pointed to the door opposite them.

“Might as well. Who knows, maybe I won’t paint dark shit right now.” Ian stood and shook out the tingle in his legs from being stationary for too long. He turned and offered Mickey his hand. But he didn’t take it. Ian looked down at him, seeing Mickey looking up and that something….was there. 

“You gonna take it or leave me hanging or what?” he teased, thankful his voice didn’t sound as confused as he felt.

Mickey huffed and took his hand. It buzzed with energy. Strong and alive, hot to the touch. Ian was panting softly as he pulled Mickey to stand and they were suddenly very closer, in a different way then they had been moments ago. 

“What the fuck is that?” Mickey took his hand back and looked at his palm as if he expected to see something.

Ian rubbed his hand down the side of his jeans, trying to clear away the feeling before he decided how much he liked it or not. “Probably just static.”

Mickey thought about arguing but the look in Ian’s eyes stopped him. “Yeah, probably.”

Ian nodded once in thanks for letting it go and stepped back so Mickey could once again kneel by the door and dick with the lock. After a few jiggles and more than a few curse words, Mickey smiled and turned the knob.

“No shit,” Ian chuckled and wiggled the unlocked door knob. “Pretty impressive Mick.”

Mickey didn’t correct the use of the nick name; it wasn’t the first time Ian called him that. “Shut the fuck up with that shit and go in.”

Ian shoved him playfully and walked in. Even just having the door open boosted his mood. The air smelled of paint thinner and rubbing alcohol mixed with different types of paints. It smelled like salvation. 

He didn’t turn the light on, he didn’t need it. Ian knew this place like the back of his hand. He knew the exact amount of steps from the door to the back of the large room. Mickey, however, did not know and he tripped over the first thing he found.

“Shit Gallagher!” He caught himself on the opposite wall before he fell and kicked the empty bucket. “Can’t turn a damn light on?”

Ian smirked. “It’s on the wall to your right and it’s not my fault you’re clumsy as all hell.”

Mickey turned on the light and flipped him off. Ian flipped him one right back and turned away before his smile widened any further. 

“That smell doesn’t give you a headache?” Mickey asked, trying to scrunch his nose.

“I guess you get used to it after awhile,” he moved to the new canvas hung on the back wall. Sasha must have come by and had another one put up. “That could be a lie though, I could just be getting high off the fumes and talkin out my ass.”

Mickey snorted and followed him further into the room. “So Picasso, you gonna wow with me that talent?”

Ian turned to look at him. “You asking to watch?” 

He never let anyone watch him work before. It’s not like he had anyone ask before, but he would say no if they had. Ian wasn’t even sure he could work with someone watching. 

Mickey shrugged. “I showed you my shit last night, only fair. Right?” He lifted his eyebrows.

Ian pulled on the bar in his bottom lip, tugging on it with his teeth. “Yeah, I guess that’s only fair. Just a warning though, ain’t had anyone watch me before.”

Mickey took a seat at the cluttered, paint stained table, the furthest thing from the canvas as he could without being outside the room. “You can always say no.”

Ian shook his head. “It’s cool. You are responsible for my freakishly good mood after all so maybe you get the honor of watching.”

Mickey got all dramatic and put a hand over his heart, making Ian smile. “It’s not for free Gallagher, if whatever you paint makes it big time, I get some credit. Deal?”

Ian nodded, meeting his eyes and watched him hide all that nervousness behind playful jabs and jokes. It didn’t matter that neither of them had the balls to admit that connection between them, it was there, and they knew it. 

“Deal. But, you gotta stay there the whole time. I can’t work if you’re lookin over my shoulder.”

Mickey held his hands out. “Just get on with it and I’ll keep to myself.”

Ian walked to the door and shut it, then turned the dial on the light and dimmed it so only the light above the canvas was lit, putting Mickey in the dark. When he glanced over, he couldn’t see anything, but the dash of light reflected in his eyes. Making it seem as if he was really alone. 

Painting was more than any piece of paper, or a canvas. It was a way of life. It had a balance, an order to it. There were certain things he had to do to get into that headspace. 

Ian ignored that flush of heat from Mickey’s stare, wondering if he was even aware of it or not. He kicked off his shoes and slid them off to one side and moved to turn on the radio next to the window. The song, whatever song it was, it kinda sounded like ‘Bring Me to Life' by Evanescence. It flowed through the room in that Erie, morose way. 

Ian cracked open the window and moved to the cart filled to the brim with paint and rolled it next to the canvas. Just staring down into the bucket of deep blue paint, he already knew what he would do. It was right beside him, sitting at the desk in the corner. Before he touched the brushes, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and peeled it over his head.

Mickey tried to keep his gasp in check as Ian’s torso was exposed to him for the first time. It wasn’t like he didn’t already know Ian was a looker, but what caught his eyes this time was all that ink covering up about 80% of his body. From this angle, he could only see part of Ian’s right side, seeing nasty, creepy looking vines twirl their way up his arm. 

Ian turned to see-more like feel- Mickey looking at his body. Aside from Scud, he didn’t let anyone see his body so openly like this or have the chance to look at all his tattoos.

Mickey was different. 

Instead of flinching because of the heated stare, he grabbed a clean brush and tried to ignore the way his body heated. The motions were ingrained in him. Dip into the paint and with steady hands, he drew the exact shape of Mickey’s eyes. The perfect, inhuman arch of his eye brows. Dragging the blackened brush over the white canvas until Mickey was staring right at him, almost. 

He wiped the brush into a bucket of murky water and went for blue. Not just any blue. He poured a little onto a clean spot on the cart and grabbed for a bottle of dark gray. He squeezed some, very little, into the center of the blue and swirled it around until the exact color sat before him.

Fuck, it felt good. Painting this. Painting him. He didn’t have one dark thought the entire time. No feelings of dread or anger, even Lip got pushed to the back of his mind. It was instant Nirvana. A feeling he hadn’t felt in at least a year. 

Ian wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The song changed, multiple times but the words or the beat didn’t register on his mind. His body was glistening with a sheen of sweat, something he didn’t realize until the breeze brought goosebumps out of his skin. His hands were multicolored, even his jeans hadn’t been spared. The best work of art was messy and a little destructive. 

The more of Mickey that came to life in front of him, the hotter he felt. Like he was standing near an oven, dipping his head inside and felt the heat flush over his face. Blue eyed held so much emotion, passion and kindness. They looked right into him, peeling back the layers of black, rotting pieces of his soul to find the raw, fresh part that he locked away. The pure part. The piece of his soul that hadn’t been tainted with tragedy. 

“Ian?” 

Ian blinked and saw Mickey standing next to him. A minute ago, he had been sitting out of sight, now, somehow, he was next to him. Mickey looked concerned, eyebrows drawn downwards, the soft features of his face all aimed at him. 

“Yeah?” his voice was low, weak sounding and held the edge of panic. He sounded like he’d been crying for days. 

Mickey didn’t look at the canvas, he was too concerned with Ian to worry about what it looked like at the end. “Are you okay?”

Ian blinked slowly. “Why?”

Mickey lifted his hand to Ian’s cheek and stopped a tear before it dripped off his face. “You don’t seem okay.”

Mickey voice was soft again, like he was trying to keep shit calm around them and not provoke any unwanted, unexplainable feelings. Ian looked down to see that Mickey’s finger was wet, he’d been crying.

“Shit, sorry.” He tossed the brush aside and quickly wiped off his face, smearing pain across his cheeks and pushing too hard against his sore, bruised eyes. “Guess sometimes this shit gets all, I don’t know, emotional?”

Mickey nodded and gave a reassuring smile. “No big deal, just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He kept his back turned away from Ian’s current piece, he didn’t want to start a fight about looking when Ian told him not to.

Ian noticed and smiled, wiping his hands against his stained jeans. “You want to see?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Course I do. You gonna bite my head off if I look?”

“No,” he turned to glance at it and smiled brightly. “I think I got everything right.”

Mickey scuffed as he turned to look. “I’m sure you always get it righ—” his words became nothing more than a whisper as he laid eyes on his…eyes. Staring down at him, at them like he was their guardian angel, sent to watch over them.

Ian suddenly became very nervous. He didn’t paint shit like this and wasn’t sure if it was even good or it could be possible that Mickey didn’t want to be painted like that. Or at all. It was one of those things you’d ask beforehand. 

He rubbed the back of his buzzed head. “Uh, shit. I hope you don’t mind. I don’t really,” he paused his half ass apology and took a breath, “I don’t normally do this kind of shit.”

Mickey closed his mouth after he realized it had been hanging open. “Are you sayin my eyes are shitty?” his eyebrows rose up high, just like in the painting.

“No!” He glanced at what was probably his favorite piece so far. “Mick, you have beautiful eyes.”

Mickey dropped the touch guy act and smiled. “Ah, thanks Gallagher.” Elbowed him. “Just dickin with you Ian. I guess I was just surprised.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “You had me for a second there Mick. Thought we were gonna go for round two.” He elbowed him back. 

Before Mickey could reply, the alarm on Ian’s phone blasted. Echoing through the loud room. Mickey quirked an eyebrow at him and Ian felt all that previous happiness wash away when it dawned on him that three hours had gone by since he told his story to Mickey. 

It was 3:45 in the morning, April 7th, the exact time the car slammed into Lip’s door, yanking him from his life. 

“Fuck.” He whispered and felt his legs wobble. All that good shit, all the talking with Callaghan and his wonderful conversation with Mickey, all those smiles. Gone. 

'Life Is Beautiful' played softly.

“Oh shit.” Mickey whispered and put a hand on Ian’s shoulder and squeezed hard.

Ian took one last look at the painting of Mickey’s eyes and it quickly became blurry. Tears clouded his vision, making the blues and blacks, the grays mix and blend together. 

“I fuckin hate this day.” Ian whispered, feeling his throat start to close. Threatening to suffocate him with those awful words and the painful jabs from the scar on his left arm. 

Mickey could tell he was losing it, fast. He had no idea what to do or say that may bring him back, if it was even possible. Maybe crying it out would help. Maybe getting bloody again and fighting would help. 

“You wanna get outta here, get shit faced?” He offered, trying and probably failing to help.

Ian appreciated the offer. He really did. But he didn’t think it would help. Hell, getting shit faced was the reason he was in this nightmare in the first place. Poor impulse control and no account for his family’s feelings. 

“Sorry Mick, I’m not sure that would help.” He wipped his face, which was still wet with tears. “But thanks. Ya know, for helping. Talkin and shit. For trying.”

“I know this entire fucking day is gonna feel like shit, it’s gonna seem long as fuck. But I’ll be around here most of the day if you want to stop by again. Talk or not, I’ll be here.” It didn’t feel like it was enough. It would never be enough. Mickey squeezed his shoulder again and when he went to turn away, Ian’s hand landed on his. He looked up to meet watery green eyes. 

“I’m really sorry Ian.”

Ian nodded and squeezed one more time before they both let go. He took a few steps back, seeing Mickey looking at him concerned. Curious. He didn’t even realize he was doing it, until his arm swiped all the shit off the cart, all the paint and brushes, buckets of water, scattering, pouring to the floor.

“Fuck!” Ian screamed and kicked the cart with his bare foot. He hated feeling like this. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He was supposed to start this year normally, not feeling like his world was about to fall from under him. 

Mickey felt like he was falling apart, and it wasn’t even related to his life. But seeing Ian so broken, so unhappy. In pain. And he couldn’t do anything. 

“I hate it.” Ian sobbed and turned to the nearest wall and started beating his fists against it. Over and over until the blood mixed with paint and fanned out around it. It didn’t hurt. Not even with his broken thumb. “I don’t even want to be here.”

Mickey thumbed the corner of his mouth, starting to freak out a little. He took a step forward and instantly took it back. How the hell was he supposed to help?

It didn’t take long for him to decide, a rather nasty punch made something in Ian’s hand crack and before he knew it, he was running towards him, wrapping both arms around him to try and gain control of his hands.

“Ian!” Mickey yelled, hoping it was loud enough for Ian to hear him. 

Ian tried to fight. He jerked against the arms that held him, tried to knock them away and continue his assault on the wall. But Mickey wouldn’t let up. He held him tight, both of his hands on his tattooed wrists, folding them against his chest. 

“Mick please…” Ian whined and let his head drop back and rest against his shoulder.

“Shh, I gotcha.” He mumbled against his neck and slowly walked them back, away from the wall. Ian was trembling, shaking. Even without his shirt, the room was hot. The shakes weren’t from that. It was from pain, anguish. 

“It fucking hurts.” Ian followed Mickey, wherever the hell he was leading him. It made no difference where he was.

Mickey moved them to the small, tattered, paint stained sofa and sat down, pulling Ian back against his chest. “Just breathe,” he took a deep breath and was relieved when Ian followed. Taking deep, shaky breaths. “Just like that, just follow me.”

Ian nodded, breathing deep as a fresh wave of tears came. He didn’t try to break free of Mickey’s tight grasp. It actually felt good, the pressure. Someone doing their best to hold the bloody, broken pieces of him together. 

Mickey kept taking deep breaths, his mouth next to Ian’s ear. Ian had the breathing thing down, but it helped to keep it going. It was calming him down to see Ian calm down. 

Eventually, he had no more tears to cry. He was no longer trying to hyperventilate. Deep even breaths, feeling Mickey’s chest rise and fall evenly with his. Ian unclenched his fists and rested them over Mickey’s forearms, trying to hold him too. Not to mention the deep breathing in his ear. It was so calming.

“I feel better when you’re around Mick.” Ian turned his head and rested his eyes against Mickey’s arm and breathed him in. 

“I’m happy you do.” Mickey mumbled back, he eased up his grip, so he was lightly holding Ian’s wrists, brushing his thumb lightly over them. “I just wish I could fuckin help you.”

“This is helping." He squeezed tighter. It would be easy to fall asleep here. Wrapped up in the warm arms of someone who cared enough to hold him while be fell apart. “Nothing ever helps.”

“Do you want me to walk you back?” Mickey asked, trying to find some way to break them up. Not because he didn’t want this, it was because he wasn’t supposed to want this. 

“I’ll probably just crash here.” He took a deep breath and untucked his face from Mickey’s arm. “You don’t have to stay.”

Mickey squeezed once and fought not to put his lips to the soft, tattooed skin of Ian’s neck. “I wanted to stay, remember?”

Ian nodded and sat up, smiling sadly as his comforting arms slid away, leaving him colder than he had been in a long time. He turned to sit, facing him. “Thanks for everything Mick.” 

“Remember what I told you, anytime. Okay?” 

Ian nodded. He didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Being around Mickey, talking or staring at a blank wall in the hallway, painting or being wrapped up like he meant something, it chipped something away inside him. 

Before he knew what was happening, they were leaning in towards each other. Slowly. Mickey looked like he was fighting it, the pull between them. His eyes were wide, probably trying to figure out if this was real. But their connection was so strong it was useless to fight it. It would feel so much better to give in.

Just when they were both bent forward, only inches away from something they couldn’t turn back from, Mickey’s phone rang. But he didn’t move back, he dug into his pocket and fished it out.

Ian smiled when Mickey fumbled with the screen. Ian reached out and softly cupped the side of Mickey’s face, brushing his thumb under one bruised blue eye and seeing his eyes flutter closed as they made contact. It vibrated between them. 

Mickey finally got the screen to cooperate, managing to hit the accept call button, just as Ian held his face. The touch was so intimate, so soft and it was the best thing he’d felt in a long time. He blushed, trying not to get caught up in what this meant, what it might mean, and put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Mickey’s voice was shot, emotional and Ian knew if he spoke, his would be too. He didn’t listen to the conversation even when it was clear he could have. It didn’t interest him, he just calmly stroked his thumb over Mickey’s cheek, amazed at how soft he felt and waited for it to be over.

“When?” Mickey asked, looking up at Ian’s eyes. Fuck, he was so close. Too close. This entire thing shouldn’t be happening. He couldn’t let this happen, but it was too fucking hard to pull away. 

Ian leaned down until their noses brushed. Mickey’s lips looked so soft, smooth. He noticed how flawless his skin was before but not his lips. Until now. His bottom lip was thicker than the top, that perfect pink color that would darken nicely when kissed. 

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be right out.” Mickey wanted to stay. He really fucking did. This was a bad idea though. Grief might bring people together, but after that grief was gone, when Ian healed and didn’t need him anymore, it would hurt, and it would scar. “Love you too.” Mickey said three words that changed it all.

Ian wanted to lash out. To tell Mickey he lead him on. Except he didn’t. Their relationship went from hostile to friendly slowly, then from friendly to tense quickly. It was something neither of them suspected, or they would have fought to keep their distance. But some shit, some people are drawn to each other no matter what. That’s what he felt with Mickey. He couldn’t be mad.

Mickey had a boyfriend.

“Thanks again Mick.” Ian moved away from Mickey’s mouth and softly pressed his lips against his forehead as he closed his eyes. “Night.”

Mickey closed his eyes, feeling that loss of…friendship? Possible friendship maybe if things had been different. “Good night Ian.”

Ian moved back until both feet were on the floor and his hands slipped into his hair, trying to fight off the shakes. Mickey left quickly, not looking back. No last words. He found him when he was a mess. He dealt with him when he was violent, then weepy, then back to angry. Mickey managed to glue all his pieces together and with one phone call, the glue started to chip away, peeling apart and he was left alone to watch those pieces fall to the ground. 

Mickey had to be the most amazing person he’d ever met. Strong, confident. Strong convictions. He knew what he wanted, who he was, and he took no shit from anyone. But there was a gentle side to him. Compassionate, unable to deny him when clearly Mickey was involved with someone else.

Mickey made him feel normal again. It quiets the voices in his head, all that white noise. It stopped the second Mickey came around and now that he was gone, all that shit came rushing back. Invading his mind, attacking his soul. 

Mickey was his salvation. Too bad some don’t deserve it.


	6. Mixed Signals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian learns more about Mickey's boyfriend

Perpetual Darkness  
Chapter 6- Mixed Signals

Mickey had a boyfriend. Figures. Why wouldn’t he? A guy like that; talented as all hell with a promising future, sweet as a button, probably with a heart made of solid gold, he was downright beautiful. Of course he wouldn’t be single. Even if he was single, why would he give him a chance? He came with too much baggage. Too many issues he’d rather drink, fuck and smoke away, rather than deal with it like an adult. 

But fuck, why did he have to connect with him like that just for the universe to toss it back in his face that he was just out of reach? It was madness. Cruel and sick, twisted. Way more than his current personality ever could be. Ian saw their potential together. Swirling in a mix of incredible colors. All things soft and light, blue to match his eyes; a pure color. Add that with his red and orange swirls, mimicking the fire that was threatening to burn him away. It would be beautiful together.

They would be beautiful together.

Ian just sat there for an hour after Mickey left, trying not to give in and put himself into a sex or drug induced coma to get through this awful day. He hated it. It hurt a little less when Mickey was around. He’d held him, taken his mind off it. Comforted him. Told him it was okay to feel like that. To still be angry, to feel guilty. Mickey encouraged him to open up and dealt with the fallout when he had. 

No one else had been so kind. Or maybe they tried to be, and he shut them out like he did everything else. 

Ian sat on the floor with the couch to his back, staring at his phone. Lip’s number and picture danced along the screen. After the 4th time of talking himself out of it, he finally he dial and waited for it. 

7 rings later and the voicemail kicked in. “Hey, this is Lip. Sorry I missed your call and I’ll call back as soon as fucking possible. Okay? So back off and be patient.”

Ian snorted at the message. He could hear all the sass Lip could manage in a few sentences. “Hey Lip, it’s Ian. I just wanted to call…” he took a deep breath, “just to hear your voice I guess. Today is the day. That awful fucking day.”

He had to pull the phone away just as the tears clouded his voice.

“I miss you and I know it’s pathetic, but I’m not okay. Not at all. I wish you were here with me. I wish that I hadn’t blown off family night.” 

Another deep breath.

“I can’t promise, because I don’t want to let you down,” he rubbed over his cheeks with his shirt, “but I’m gonna reach out to them. Fiona and the kids. To see how they are.”

Ian pulled the phone back and hit speaker phone so he could see Lip’s face as he spoke.

“I’m gonna come see you. Maybe we can talk some more.”

The phone beeped twice in his ear. “To send your message, press 1 now. To cancel your message, press two now.”

Ian pressed one.

“Message sent. Goodbye.”

The call ended and the screen went dark. It didn’t help like he thought it might, but he’d never called like that before. Normally he couldn’t leave a message. It was a good step and he was going to attempt to reach out to them, Fiona. It might be ugly and painful, but compared to how he felt now, that was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Ian moved on autopilot; putting his shirt and shoes back on, cleaning up the paint and water he spilt everywhere. Turned the radio off and shut the window. Signed the painting of Mickey’s eyes and left. He locked the door on his way out and wondered down the hall to the next door.

It was unlocked. The same door he found Mickey in that one night. Only his paintings were gone, and photographic pictures hung from a line attached from one end of the wall to the other. He knew without actually knowing that Mickey did these. They were fucking wonderful. 

Images of trees and random people, smiling or talking. A group of skate boarders jumping at the same time, so it looked like they were hovering. An image of a giant smoke cloud coming from a skinny girls mouth, it looked majestic. Ian noticed the images of the stars Mickey had taken the other night. Close ups and from a distance and it really looked more beautiful then he ever thought it could. 

It wasn’t often Ian admitted when he was wrong about something. Not to himself or where others could hear it. But he was wrong about photography. Or maybe he only liked them because it came from Mickey. As if that somehow made it better, made it likeable.

He gave a glance to that dark room door. The one he pulled Mickey out of. At the time, Mickey hadn’t wanted him in there. Would the light really ruin them? Ian took a look around the empty room and quickly shut the door and turned the light off. He ran a hand along the wall until he could grip the doorknob.

This was probably an invasion of privacy and would most likely put him on the outs with Mickey again, but he was too curious to leave it alone. As they said, “curiosity killed the cat.” The same was probably true for nosey Gallagher’s who didn’t respect anyone’s personal space besides their own. 

Ian took a deep breath and opened the door. It was dark inside. So dark it made the rest of the room visible to him. He stepped in and shut the door behind him. There was a switch on the wall just left of the knob. He flipped it and had to blink fast as the room was engulfed in red light. 

It didn’t see so top secret at first. Until he looked up and saw more pictures hanging from clips. It was normal, he could guess, if only the images weren’t all of him. All of them. Ian did a quick count, over 20. Why had Mickey taken pictures of him? And when? This was the reason he didn’t want his picture ruined? 

“Creepy.” He whispered to himself, noting that talking to yourself was a bit creepy as well. 

Each image was different. From different places all over the school. The art studio, a few classrooms, Sasha's Gallery downtown. Campus coffee shop, the library, media room. By the fountain, the theater.

Why had he taken all these? 

Not that it mattered. If Mickey wanted to send out mixed signals, he could play on his own. Taking creepy pictures of him, trying to be nice, to be friends. Maybe it was all a bunch of bullshit. Creepy ass stalker vibes. Although, maybe it wasn’t any different than him drawing endless blue eyes over everything available. That was just as creepy.

“Bunch of stalkers around here.” Ian snorted as he dug into his backpack and grabbed all the loose papers with Mickey’s eyes all over them. He took down each picture of himself and replaced it with the papers. He stuffed his face into his bag, turned the light off and walked out. He didn’t know what made him do that other than Mickey would come to him about it and maybe that’s all he wanted.

Ian didn’t go back to the house again. He really couldn’t deal with Lindsay and his shit. Instead he went to Sasha's room. He had one of the biggest rooms in the dorm, even if he was never there and also wasn’t student but they gave it to him as a curtesy. Good thing too because he had the only spare key. He was surprised to find a light on inside, and Sasha sitting at his desk, looking out the window as the moon lit up the sky.

Ian gave a little knock, making Sasha jump and curse in Russian, before he got a knowing smile. The door opened and he didn’t even need to explain. Sasha just stepped aside and let him in.

“I guess I’m not surprised to find you lurking about.” 

Ian shook his head. Sasha took a seat back at his desk and offered him the other seat. He dropped his bag and plopped heavily into the chair. “Yeah, don’t wanna deal with the boys. Not today.”

Sasha opened his desk and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Ian wanted to cry over it and greedily accepted the glass just to chug it all in one go. It burned all the way down and it was the good shit, a few more of those and he would feel just fine about today. 

“I’m sure your…brothers would understand if you told them what today is.” Sasha said with a smile and refilled his glass. 

“Yeah, they probably would. But then they would get this look on their faces and it would piss me off.”

“What look?”

Ian shrugged and leaned down until the back of his neck rested on the chair. “Pity, guilt, one of those annoying feelings. They would treat me different, walk on eggshells and shit.”

“You can’t keep yourself closed off Ian. I know you think it’s easier like that, but it’s not.”

Ian ignored him and tossed back the second drink before asking for another. “I’m gonna do what I do. Keep drinking until the day passes and it doesn’t hurt as much.”

“You look like shit.”

Ian cracked a smile.

“Mickey do that?” 

“Yeah, he’s got some too.” Ian didn’t even feel it anymore. “But not to worry Yoda, we made up.”

“Oh, really? I’m surprised. I thought you two might kill each other before you both become famous.”

The snark in Sasha’s tone let him know he was kidding, mostly. It hadn’t been smart to pick a fight in the first place, but he needed it, like he did now, and it was beneficial. He met Mickey. The real Mickey behind those cute black rimmed glasses and ‘yes sir' attitude.

“Yup, even let him sit and watch me earlier.”

Sasha's mouth dropped open. Eyes wide. Clearly in shock. With good reason. He didn’t let anyone watch. Not even Sasha. Mickey was the sole exception. If he said he’d never let it happen again, he’d be a liar.

“I’m impressed Ian. I guess he made an impression, hmm?”

Ian nodded and took another drink. “He did. Maybe too good an impression.”

Sasha narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I see. You like him, don’t you?”

Ian flipped him off but looked away. A clear YES if he ever said it. “Even if I did, and I’m not claiming I said that, but if, it wouldn’t matter.”

“No? Why not?”

“For one, I’m a goddamn mess. For two, he doesn’t need to deal with my shit. Unlike you, he won’t benefit from it. And for three,” he let out a deep, disappointed sigh, “he has a boyfriend.”

“Yes, I know all of those things.” 

Ian met his eyes. “How do you know he has one?”

Sasha shrugged. “It’s really not a big deal Ian. He happens to be a friend of mine.”

Why did that piss him off so much? It’s not like after hearing about their fight, that Sasha would ever think he might like Mickey at all, let alone like that. Maybe it pissed him off because he should have knows Mickey would have someone.

“Who?”

“Ian it’s not a big deal.” Sasha sighed.

Ian shook his head. “Who is it?”

“I called from his phone before you went to church. His name is Jayden.”

Sasha used Mickey’s boyfriends phone to call him? That was a new level of fucked up. One no one saw coming. Jayden. Sounded like some North Side asshat. 

“How do you know him?” Ian asked as he set his cup down, grabbed the bottle and poured up to the rim.

“Please don’t make this a big deal. The last thing I need is for you to pick a fight with him like you did Mickey.”

“I won’t, fuck. It’s not like I’m going to stalk him or anything. I’m just curious.” Ian shot back, getting grumpier by the second.

Sasha rubbed his eyes and sat back. “Fine. His name is Jayden Marx.”

Ian swore he said Jayden Marx; the performing artist. They created works of art out of weird shit, using their bodies most of the time. Some shit he didn’t understand but Marx was damn good. A true professional. Big time. Fuck. Of course Mickey would snag a guy like that. It didn’t help that Marx was hot as fuck. Shit.

“Like THE Jayden Marx right?” Ian asked, just because he didn’t want to be wrong.

“The one and only.” Sasha smiled. “ A bit of an age gap but they are quite lovely together.”

Ian rolled his eyes. Sasha was an asshole. “Like 20 years age gap?” 

“About 5 or so. Jayden is 32 so it’s not bad. But that matters little these days.”

If he started asking questions, more questions, Ian knew he would regret it. He already did. Just knowing that Mickey was with an attractive, successful guy took a notch or two from his pride and his ego. He never even had a chance. Maybe for friends, or enemies. But never more than that.

“Speaking of Jayden, I thought you should know that he bought the majority of your work.” 

Ian’s eyes widened. Mickey’s boyfriend bought his work? Holy hell that was a weird thing to imagine. Did Mickey know? Did he think it was odd too? “How many of them?”

Sasha rifled through his desk until he found the inventory list for the show. “Uh, let’s see….oh, it says Marx bought at like 75 out of the 88. “

“Holy hell, that’s a fuck load of them.”

Sasha nodded. “He was quite impressed. Both with your work and Mickey’s organization and ability to put together a good turn out like that.”

Even though it was Mickey’s boyfriend, he was happy his show was so popular. This was the sort of shit he needed before he graduated. He needed his shit out in the world before the world unleashed upon to. It could be brutal. Most didn’t make it. Bur he would. He would fight and claw and bleed until he made it. 

“That reminds me, while we are on the subject of Marx and his taste… he seemed to like your work so much that he wants to use you in his next Gallery showing.”

A bomb could have gone off right next to his face and he wouldn’t have moved. Marx Galleries were fucking famous and hard as hell to get an invite to and this bastard wanted him to be apart of it? Without meeting him? Just because he liked his work so much? 

“Are you serious Sasha? Because if this is a truck, mentor or not, I’ll beat the fuck out of you.”

Sasha chuckled. “On my mother’s grave I am tell omg the truth. He asked me to pass it along. But this won’t be like anything you are used to Ian. Your work, your paintings won’t be there.”

“No?” he asked, less excited than he was.

“Remember, he does performance art and if he wants you to be in his Gallery, that means you will have to perform.”

Well that was obvious. He just hadn’t put those simple pieces together. “I know jack shit about performing.”

“He did not give me all the details because even I am not privy to all that. But this could do wonders to get your name out there. Along side Jayden Marx means something Ian.”

Sasha seemed very excited. And he was right, it was big. It meant that the important people who came to see Jayden's Gallery, would see him and his name there too. They might be curious and look at his work and find that they like it and tell their friends or business associates and so on and so on. It was fucking amazing.

“Is he supposed to get in touch with me?” 

Sasha pulled a card from his desk and tossed it to him. “He wanted me to bring it up and if you were interested, and judging by how much you ate drooling, you are very interested, to give you the card.”

Ian took the card like it would bite him. He kinda felt like it was a big prank. That if he called, some asshole would answer and try to sell him a timeshare in Alaska. But, if there was just the slightest chance it was real, he had to give it a chance. 

“Just call him Ian. Let him explain what all he has in mind. And just remember that anything he suggests would be worth it to get your name recognized along side his.”

If he did this, there was a good chance that he would end up seeing Mickey at some point. Depending on how long this show took and how involved he would be in it. Maybe that was the reason he stuck the card into his paint stained jeans and hot the promise of fame. 

“Thanks man. I guess it won’t hurt to check it out.”

Sasha smiled. “Good. Now, I need to get home to nap before I tutor the failures that were presented to me for this kind holiday.”

Ian snorted. 

“You staying here?”

“If you don’t mind. Need to work some shit out and probably crash too.” He took the bottle as he sat back and not the glass. “I might, now this is a big ass might, go downtown later.”

Sasha smiled as he came around the desk. “I think that is a wonderful idea Ian. I’m sure they have missed you there.”

“Gonna see how it goes so keep your hair on.” He shrugged off his hand, but Sasha knew him well enough to know how hard he was trying. “Go ahead old man, go catch some zz's.” 

“Call me tomorrow when you decide about Marx?”

Ian nodded but didn’t turn around. He just drank from the bottle as he left him with too much shit to think about. On one hand, Sasha dashed his hopes of ever getting close to Mickey, but on the other hand, he helped hold his future. One he could have, the other he wanted but would never have. There was no way he could compete with Jayden Marx.

Ian closed and locked the door, kicked off his shoes, peeled away his shirt and sat in the middle of Sasha's neatly made cot in the back of the room. He set his phone to play whatever was on at 5 in the morning and grabbed his sketch pad from his bag.

Aside from all that Marx shit, he thought about Mickey. About what they had or felt like they had. It seemed so strong, so real. So obtainable. Maybe they could just be friends. Maybe they could even be good friends. But there was no way he could look at Mickey’s lips and not want to kiss them. There was no way he could look into his stormy blue eyes and not see the greatness that would flourish. 

Ian took drink after drink from that bottle as he glanced out the window. Even though the sun was slowly creeping into the sky, he could still see the moon clearly. Like it refused to cut its time short because the sun wanted to come out. 

It wasn’t the same moon Mickey took a picture of. Slightly larger than before. But thanks only to Mickey, he now saw the beauty in a picture of something so typical as the moon. Now, he refused to pick up a camera to take a picture of it, but he was more then happy to draw it. Trying to get every single detail because the moon tonight would be a different moon than this one. And Mickey was missing this one. 

Ian sketched the entire landscape. Everything he could see out the window; the sun trying to peek through the clouds, the bench they sat on, the fountain he drew over and over. The gap in the trees where he could see it perfectly. Big and bright.

By the time he was done drawing it, he had done so at least 15 times within the hour. Each drawing he drew was different. The sun shown brighter in each drawing, the moon a little dimmer. The sun started out being blocked by the trees, to sitting high up in that gap where the moon was. 

The whiskey was gone, his pencil too. His hand cramped from trying so hard to get it right. To make it so he could show Mickey that at least he tried to see shit from his point of view without sacrificing his own views. It looked good, if he said so himself. He knew what he wanted to do with them. He’d go back and hang them in the dark room. Maybe as a thank you for opening his eyes. Or he wanted Mickey to realize he understood there was more than one form of art.

Ian gathered up all the papers and put them into his bag. So much for sleep. He only managed to get a little tipsy and more into his ridiculous feelings. But it made him think about all those pictures Mickey had taken of him. If he had a boyfriend and he wasn’t interested in him like that, even though he go the opposite vibe from him, then why did he take them? It had to have been before their heart to heart shit in the studio. 

Ian locked and shut Sasha's door and made his way back into that room. He kept the lights off and carefully hung up each page of his drawings. He clipped them over the ones of Mickey’s eyes until the moon was am he could see. Each time he saw the moon, be it tonight or two weeks from now, Mickey would always pop up. It was a bitch of a thing to do. To imprint someone’s face into such a big even like the moon rising. It was like giving his feelings and thoughts permission to run amuck. 

Ian smiled by the time he closed the door. It felt like this was the beginning of something with Mickey, not the end. So they had sexual compatibility…so what. So they hit it off, big deal. So Mickey got him to open up about Lip and cry, who the fuck cared? He did. He fucking cared. All this shit lead him to believe that Mickey came into his life at this point in time on purpose. Maybe as a distraction, to keep his mind off Lip and the accident so he didn’t wind up killing him self. Either by too much sex or an OD. Maybe Mickey was really there to save him, and nothing else.

Even if he did survive this day by some miracle, or even this year, Mickey would always be there. In the front of his mind but just out of reach. The definition of torture.  
There was only one thing to take his mind off of Mickey. Ian walked half a block away from campus to the tattoo parlor that saved his life. On the way, he quickly dialed Marx number and stood outside smoking as it rang. 

“Hello?”

Ian blew smoke up into the air so he could reply. “Jayden Marx? Ian Gallagher.” He replied curtly. Big deal or not, Ian would never change himself to be more likeable. Not even for fame.

“Ah, Ian Gallagher. I was just figuring out where to put all my new acquired artwork.”

Ian smirked. “I'd recommend a separate house for them all since you bought more than half.”

Jayden laughed. “I’d have bought them all if someone hadn’t beaten me to it.”

Ian puffed on his cigarette, little surprised with how easy going this guy was. At least on the phone. Was that what drew Mickey to him? Easy going? Successful, rich, no hang ups? 

“So, Sasha said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes, I did. I tried to catch you during the show but as many people told me, you don’t stay for the entire deal.”

“I stay for enough of it.”

“As Sasha might have mentioned, I have a performance coming up, a big one. All the big wigs will be there.”

Ian felt that excitement from the tips of his toes to his hair. “He did mention it.”

“I think it might be right up your alley. As you know I do performance art, but I am having a hard time finding someone adequate for what I need. The ones I’ve chosen couldn’t measure up or wasn’t willing to do it.”

Ian narrowed his eyes as the sun shown brightly on him. Lately he preferred the moon. “And that is?”

“Sex, Mister Gallagher. Sex.”

Ian coughed on lung fulls of smoke until his eyes watered. He tossed it aside and did his best to breathe in the fresh spring air. “Okay, say that again?”

Jayden laughed. “If you would like to hear me say it again, I will. But you heard me. To put it as simply as possible, I want you to have sex with someone I choose, on stage in front of hundreds of people.”

He had to be dreaming. This shit…no one just wanted two people to fuck and call it art. If fucking was art, he was a damn master. Of the male body always. That’s the only thing he’d say no to, if the other person was female. That was a big fucking no for him. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to show the beauty of the human body in it’s purest form. But it’s not just about sex. More about the intimacy.”

“Okay, and you want me…why?” Ian asked again. He wanted to get every single reason this guy had.

“Because you have the talent I need. You will be panting with your body. You and another person. It starts out simple. Painting, which leads to touching, which leads to sex.”

The panting shit got his attention more than the sex. He never just stripped down and slathered himself in paint before. It was intriguing. 

“And of course you have the body for it as well. You are strikingly beautiful.”

Ian snorted. “Thanks. So, before I even consider this, I really hope your entire show doesn’t come down to my answer. Because this someone else is a dick, I can’t do it.”

Jayden chuckled again. “Yes, I am also aware of your sexual preferences. I believe they are the same as mine. So no, this person is a good friend of mine. This will be a man of course, also beautiful and he is a switch so if you happen to be a bottom, or a top we can work with both.”

The same sexual preferences? As in being gay or having a hard on for Mickey? Both would be accurate, but Marx wasn’t aware that he wanted to go balls deep in his sexy little boyfriend. 

“I’m a top and I don’t switch.” 

“That is fine. You don’t have to be. Look, this seems a little much to talk over the phone. Would you care to meet? I have an entire spreadsheet to show you that might give a better explanation then what I’m saying.”

Ian nodded, seeing it would help. This guy seemed more than a little nervous over the phone. Something he didn’t expect from Marx. “Sounds good. I got something going on at the moment but I’m free after that.”

“Maybe you could come to my studio? We can talk it out, have breakfast maybe, or lunch depending on the time?”

The offer to see his studio was enough to get him there. That was a gold mine. He would do horrible, nasty, dirty things to get a peek at this guys shit and now all he had to do was show up, eat some food maybe? Fuck yeah.

“Sounds good man. Should be done within the hour.” He eyed the door to the shop and had a desperate need to get inside.

“Wonderful! I have your number now so let me know when you’re free and I’ll text you my address.”

This guy sounded way too excited. Had Mickey not told him that they got in a fight? That he started that fight? If he knew, Ian would assume Marx would have an issue with him.

“Talk to you soon.” He hung up the phone and walked into the shop.

Ian was in there enough to know everyone. He waved to Nikki at the counter but didn’t bother to sign in and see if anyone was available. He strode right to and empty seat, he kind where you put your chest to the back of it and they go to work on you. He took a seat thought about Mickey as he waited.

“Gallagher, wondered when I’d see you again.”

Ian smiled at the deep sound of Beau's voice. His preferred artist was a sweet little tidbit. About 5’10, shaggy brown hair with just the right amount of stubble on his jaw. Shockingly honest, blue eyes. Beau didn’t have as many tattoos as he did, but he had an angel and a demon on his shoulder, his dad’s name across his heart, an x at the base of his throat, a small heart on one wrist. Just small ones, but they were just as sexy as the big ones. 

The thing he liked most about him; was the tattered leather jacket he wore. Vintage for sure, from decades ago. It had a weathered pair of angel wings on the back. Beau wore cut off, ratty shirts, leaving his impressive arms bare, totally drool worthy. 

Too bad the bastard was married. Like seriously married. So married Ian had been turned down, over and over again. Too fucking bad. 

“Ah, miss me, did you?” he leaned back and winked. 

Beau grinned. “Still trying to bed me, huh kid?”

Ian shrugged. No use in lying. Beau was a top, and he didn’t switch either, but Ian had a feeling Beau could easily sway him into switching it up.

“Gotta keep tryin. Sorry for the last minute walk in. Got too much shit on my mind.”

“No worries. You here to get some ink or shoot the shit?” Beau asked as he leaned against another chair, arms crossed. 

Ian admired his arms for half a second shorter than he normally would. He dug into his pocket for the outline he drew after he was done with all those moons. 

“Just a little this time. Just need to get it off my mind.” He handed the paper over and stood to unlink his belt.

“Mickey Mouse ears, huh?” Beau smiled. “Should I ask about this one?”

Beau knew the story behind every tattoo he had. He did all of them and Ian found it easy to share the stories behind them. If only to make sure to get his point across of how important each detail was. 

“Nothin too major yet, just can’t get it off my fuckin mind and I need a break.”

Beau eyed his unbuttoned jeans. “So, either this is goin below the belt or you’re still trying to get me to fuck you?”

Ian groaned, unable to help that desperate sound. The sound of an addict calling. “Yes, need it on my ass.”

Beau smirked. “On your ass huh? Like the lips?”

Ian nodded and slipped his jeans off one leg and sat back down in just his boxers. “Just like the lips but on the other side.”

“You sure you need this Ian? Not just trying to get me to touch your ass?” Beau rolled a stool with his feet until he could sit on it.

“Both, if we are being honest.” He took a second to relax forward, trying to dim down the sexual shit enough to let this clear his mind properly. “So, how’s your better half anyways? Haven’t seen him around in awhile.”

“Doin good. As pretty as he always is. Gonna be comin around today at some point so maybe you can—”

The little ding of the bell stopped Beau from finishing his sentence. Ian looked towards the door and felt his heart pound a little. Alex, Beau's pretty little wifey, as Beau would always insist. Also, his ex. He knew Alex back in school, use to be involved. Sex mostly but friends overall. That’s half the reason Ian felt good here, Alex knew Lip and all the shit that had happened last year. 

Alex was like a breath of fresh air. A little lanky, with long lovely legs stacked in a red pair of pumps that accentuated his red and yellow sundress. It fit his body like a glove, tailored to his smaller frame and to make up for the lack of boobs and feminine curves. There was no denying that Alex was a guy, he just happened to be the prettiest guy he’d ever seen and happened to like to wear clothes from the fairer sex. And fuck, if he didn’t wear the shit our of them. Dresses and skirts and those silky, sexy little panties. 

Fem-guy or fem-boy was the correct term, not crossdresser. He fucking hated that word. Alex was Just a feminine guy. Pretty with soft features and beautiful chin length brown hair, silky smooth. Thin and glossy lips and those beautiful blue eyes lightly accentuated by the barely there make up. Alex didn’t need it. He was fucking gorgeous. And Ian wasn’t one to brag, and Beau would back him on this, but what he chose to wear, didn’t knock his ability to take a dick like a champ. It was phenomenal.

“There’s my pretty girl.”

Ian smiled and watched Beau stand to scoop Alex up and twirl him around the shop. Alex gave that little squeal most girls have and let that dress flow all around them.

“Hey baby, I thought you said you’d be free…” Alex looked towards his current customer. “Ian?”

Ian smiled as he stood and did as Beau had done and spun him in a circle. “Missed you love.”

Alex blushed. “Missed you too. I keep missin you when you come in.”

Ian let him down and sat down on the chair, this time facing the happy couple. “Tryin to stay busy today, that’s all.”

Alex's smile dropped and he moved forward to cup his face and kiss his forehead. “Oh honey, I knew today would be hard for you. Maybe that’s why I picked today to come in.”

Ian closed his eyes and soaked up the comfort. He didn’t want Alex like that anymore. Not even Beau if he was being honest. It was just good fun with people who knew him as well as anyone could. It felt safe and warm, it felt like his home away from home. They were both his family and if Alex came in today, it’s because of Lip.

“Thanks love. But I’m doing okay.” He accepted Alex’s light kiss to his lips before he pulled back. “Staying busy and I was even thinking of going home for a bit. Just to see em all.”

“That’s good Ian,” Beau smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “That’s really good.”

“So, are you getting ink today?” Alex asked with a smile.

Ian nodded and watched Beau show him the little sketch he did. “Just can’t get my mind off of it. Tats are the best way to give me a break.”

Alex nodded. “Ass again?”

Ian snorted and turned back around. Alex moved to sit at the counter in front of him. “Yes, ass again. I have a great ass and it needs more ink.”

They all agreed about the rating scale of his ass, 10's across the board. Ian didn’t react when the chair was tipped forward and Beau wiggled his briefs down over the swell of his and went to work prepping for the little tattoo.

“So, you wanna tell me what mouse ears have to do with keeping your mind occupied?” Alex asked, arms across his chest.

Ian shook his head. “Nothin love. Just need to get it done with.” The buzz of the tattoo gun calmed all the nervousness that Alex was trying to drag to the surface with his questions. They were friends, he told both of them why he got his tattoos and the meanings. It made sense for Alex to want to know.

“You don’t fool me Ian.” Alex leaned forward and linked their fingers. 

Ian nodded. “This guy has me spun the fuck out. Has been givin me shit for awhile now and I really fuckin like him.”

Alex blinked back his surprise. “I didn’t not expect that. Please tell me he didn’t do that to your pretty face.”

Ian nodded. “I picked a fight with him on purpose. Thought he was a dick but I kinda like him.”

Alex smiled. “Kinda?”

Ian grinned. “Okay fine, I really like him.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

Ian groaned as the needle bit into his ass particularly hard. “He has a boyfriend. Like big time fucking boyfriend. Jayden Marx.”

“As in the performance artist Marx?” Alex asked with wide eyes.

Ian rolled his. Stupid impressive fucking guy. “That’s the one so you see my issues here. Oh, not to mention Marx wants me to do some show for him.”

“Holy shit Ian,” Alex smiled. “That’s big!”

“Yeah, it’s fucking incredible, if I didn’t want to fuck his boyfriend into next week.”

Beau snorted. “That bad, huh?”

Ian nodded. He hadn’t had a craving like this in a long time. But as much as he wanted sex, he felt that 'more' shit with him too. “It’s bad.”

“You still see Scud though, right?”

Ian closed his eyes but nodded at Alex’s question. “Saw him just the other day but you know we aren’t exclusive like that. We both can’t handle it.”

When it went quiet, he knew Alex and Beau were having one of those silent couple conversations.

“So, is that what it would be with this new guy? Just casual sex?”

Ian opened his eyes. Angry at the thought of Mickey fucking someone else. He didn’t want Mickey to kiss or touch another guy, only him and that was fucking scary. He never wanted anyone like that. 

“Uh…” he had no idea how to answer that.

“Well, before you make any big decisions about him and Marx, you need to figure out what you want. Because if it’s just sex, it may not be worth it.”

Alex had a damn good point. He thought he wanted more with Mickey, but he wasn’t even single. Ian just knew what they shared and how he felt around and wanted to chase that feeling like a dog with a bone. 

“You never said what this had to do with this guy or the tattoo.” Alex crossed his arms and tapped his shiny heel.

Ian blushed a little as the tattoo gun stopped. “His name is Mickey.” He said simply and watched as both Alex and Beau shared that look again before smiling with him. Ian grabbed the mirror that Beau handed him and angled it down to see the perfect tattoo of Mickey Mouse ears, shaded black with just a thin line to outside the rest of his head, tattooed in black on his upper left cheek. 

It was fucking perfect. Only it made him think of Mickey more, not less like he’d hoped.


End file.
